Scars
by labyrinth38
Summary: Something's apparently wrong with House, but what could it be...? No slash, just strong House Wilson friendship. Sequel to The best of motives, set a couple of months later. Now complete! R&R please...!
1. Chapter 1

Hey folks...! I'm back with a sequel to "The best of motives" called "Scars". This story takes place a couple of months - let's say six :) - after the end of the previous fic. It will probably make a lot more sense, if you've read "The best of motives" first...

I still don't own anything and still don't make any money with this.

Enough said! Here's the first chapter of "Scars". Hope you enjoy it... :)

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"You're potassium's low!" Wilson strode into House's office, his tone light if somewhat accusing.

His friend looked up at him, expression completely impassive. "Your socks don't match!" He perfectly mimicked the oncologist's pseudo-casual tone.

Suppressing the impulse to look down to check, Wilson sat down in the chair opposite his friend's desk and handed the other man a sheet with medical test results. "You also seem to have been losing some weight again…" He carefully regarded the diagnostician.

Completely ignoring the last comment, House impatiently snatched the result sheet from the younger man's hand. "How did you get these anyway…", he muttered unhappily.

Wilson answered with a small smile, leaning back in the chair now: "I have friends in high places..."

House snorted at that, quickly scanning the data. "More like in the _lab_. - Didn't even know you had any new _'projects'_ down there..." Wilson chose to conveniently ignore the sarcastic remark.

A moment of silence, then the oncologist spoke again, his tone more serious now. "You ran them yourself, didn't you." Not really a question. When the other man predictably didn't bother to reply anything, he calmly continued: "You included a liver panel... – What's going on, House." He didn't manage to completely hide the concern in his voice.

The diagnostician gave a dramatic eye-roll at that. "Nothing's going on, Mr Worry-head. Am I not allowed to check up on my own health every now and then?" Tone perfectly innocent.

Wilson snorted at that. "Yeah, sure… That's what you've been doing. Just an unmotivated health check. Usual behavior for you…" He sounded mildly frustrated by now, tone sarcastic.

Then, apparently forcing himself to get back to the most acute subject right now: "So…" Casually, yet matter-of-factly. "You been vomiting?"

House pulled his face to a grimace. "Yes, doctor. I didn't know how else to deal with all this _tension_…" Then, lowering his voice to normal levels again: "I'm not bulimic, Wilson."

His friend just nodded. "Of course not. So… Problems with the meds?"

"I'm _fine_." Forcefully.

Wilson nodded again. "Yeah. – What about the weight-loss and the potassium then… Talk to me, House."

The other man visibly shut off at the oncologist's insistent questioning. "I don't _have_ to talk to you, you know…?"

Wilson just shrugged. "No, you don't. – But I'll _have_ to admit you then…"

House looked up sharply at that. "What?!" He eyed the oncologist incredulously. "Because I've lost a couple of kilos?! That's ridiculous…"

Seemingly unperturbed by his friend's tense reaction, the younger medic replied calmly. "No. Because if you can't explain _why_ your potassium's low, we need to find out. And prevent it from dropping any lower."

The diagnostician rolled his eyes at that. "I'm a doctor too, remember? _I'm_ - _fine_! There _is _no mysterious illness."

Wilson slowly nodded, his eyes never leaving his friend. "Okay… So, you've been vomiting then."

Here we go again…

House once more rolled his eyes, clearly intent on ending this conversation. "Yes. – Happy now?"

The reply was immediate: "No. – Meds, pain, or something else?"

The diagnostician's gaze turned hard. "Just a stomach bug. - And I'm not getting off the Vicodin." His tone was an interesting mixture of defensive and threatening by now.

Wilson immediately shook his head. "No; but you're getting _on_ an antiemetic. – And if the potassium's _any lower_ by the end of the week, you're also getting on IV supplements, until this is under control." When he received no immediate protest, he gave a concluding nod, before pushing himself to his feet. "Okay then! I'll be back with the antiemetic; and we'll draw some more blood on Thursday."

When he had reached the door, he turned around once more, throwing his friend a sudden smile. "In the meantime…", he smoothly threw a banana into House's direction, before quickly exiting the room.

The other man caught it easily, snorting, a small smile escaping his lips as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, Wilson entered House's office again, more serious this time. "House!"

The diagnostician only now seemed to notice him, immediately taking off his earphones, eyeing him questioningly.

"Must be one hell of a stomach bug. – Your potassium's down to 2.6; we need to do something about it." He steadily approached his friend. "Come on. – Let's get you settled over there…" He nodded towards the other man's recliner.

House eyed him apparently unconvinced, but reluctantly pushed himself to his feet, when Wilson gently but firmly took hold of his upper arm urging him to do just that.

"I can walk, Wilson." He muttered unhappily. "I'm not _dying_ yet …"

As soon as he had taken off his jacket and settled in the other chair, Wilson removed the stethoscope from around his neck. House moaned at that, but the younger man immediately held up a hand, effectively forestalling any further protests he might have voiced. "No discussion on this, House. – Come on, sit up for me..."

The diagnostician slowly complied.

"Did you notice anything? Arrhythmias, palpitations, chest pain…?"

The older man just shook his head.

Wilson started to auscultate first House's chest, then his upper back, listening intently. That was when Foreman entered the room after a short knock, immediately raising an eyebrow at the unusual scene in front of him. Both men turned slightly towards him.

It was House who spoke first, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. "Wilson… - Such a _sucker_ for examinations…"

Foreman looked doubtful, but didn't comment any further. Instead, he handed his boss a result sheet. "Patient's white count has dropped. And her sat rate is down by one percentage point…"

House nodded. "Do the MRI."

The younger doctor nodded in confirmation, then briefly eyed Wilson, who was still carefully listening to House's chest.

His gaze shifted back to his boss. "What's wrong with you…"

House just shrugged. "Nothing. - What's wrong with _you_?"

Wilson rolled his eyes at that, only now sitting back slightly. "His physical brought up a low potassium… I just wanna make sure it's not affecting his heart yet."

He half-turned towards House again. "And now I want you to sit back, relax, and wait for me to organize an IV supplement." Without asking for anyone's okay, he simply added: "Dr Foreman will stay here with you till I'm back…"

When he returned, his friend was – for once – obediently resting in his recliner, while Foreman was on the phone, unobtrusively keeping an eye on his boss.

Wilson crouched down next to his friend, gently touching his left forearm. "You feeling okay?" He kept his tone intentionally light.

House nodded. "Feeling great! Would be feelin' even better if you didn't act like I was _dying_ any minute...!"

The oncologist smiled mildly at him in response, wordlessly starting to prepare a vein. "I'll start you on a supplement of 60 mmol. - We'll let this go in real slow... 10 mmol per hour."

House moaned loudly at that. "You wanna keep me chained here for _6 hours_?! Why not just handcuff me to a heater and leave me for good…"

Suppressing the strong impulse to roll his eyes at the other man's antics, Wilson forced himself to reply patiently. "House. You're probably the best doctor in this clinic. You don't need me to explain to you that potassium needs to be administered very _carefully_, _if_ you wanna avoid going into cardiac _arrest_. And that means we'll do this _slowly_. Non-negotiable. We'll give this 6 hours time to run." To the other man's continually pained expression, he added more quietly: "You _need_ this. And you know it…"

Foreman had just hung up the phone, approaching the two men now. "Do you...", he started hesitantly, only to be interrupted by his boss. "We're fine. Go and... do some doctoring or something. Keep me informed on the kid's condition." Frustration was evident in his tone.

Foreman slowly nodded, his gaze shifting to Wilson, who was just about to lie the IV cannula. "Let us know if you need us to do anything..."

The oncologist nodded, without taking his eyes of House's vein. "I will. Thanks..."

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"So…" Wilson kept his eyes fixed on the IV solution. Almost half of it was in now. "You're sure this is just a stomach bug…"

He saw House shrug in his peripheral field of vision. "Wouldn't know what else it should be…"

The oncologist shifted his gaze towards his friend now. He didn't say anything for a minute. Then, calmly: "Has there been any blood…?"

House met his gaze at that. "Don't you think I'd have paid gastro a brief visit, if I thought I had a bleeding ulcer? – And you've seen my liver panel. Surprisingly, nothing wrong there…"

When Wilson continued to look at him, he rolled his eyes. "No, Mister pain-in-the-neck, there hasn't been any blood in my vomit."

A small smile suddenly escaped Wilson. "Never hurts to check…"

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"House…" Wilson almost groaned the name. "Would you _please_ stop _squirming_…! Just for a minute? Please??" When the diagnostician reluctantly stilled his restless movements, but started to fiddle with the IV line instead a minute after that, the younger medic closed his eyes in mild despair. "House! Stop it; now…!" He pressed the words through gritted teeth. Then, once more fighting for his remaining patience: "We're done in about an hour. And… contrary to what you'd like us all to believe, you are _not_ a _child_. So will you please just hold still and wait for this to finish…?"

A minute smile appeared on the other man's face.

Wilson squinted his eyes suspiciously. "You enjoy this, don't you."

The smile on his friend's face grew.

"You _do_ enjoy this! I can't believe it… Well, I don't! And I have better things to do with my time. The least you could do…"

He was interrupted by the dean of medicine entering the room. She instantly took in the scene before her, her gaze travelling from the IV pole to House, before finally settling on the oncologist.

"What the hell is going on here?!" Her tone was an interesting mixture of annoyance and reluctant concern.

Wilson calmly met her gaze. "Nothing unusual really..." Mildly sarcastic. "He's just being his usual... _stubborn_ self, and didn't tell anybody about some…", he lifted a hand, vaguely gesturing into his friend's direction, "…stomach thing that's been going on for a while. The while, of course, being long enough to allow this to show up in his potassium level!"

Cuddy slowly nodded.

"And… I don't see a cardiac monitor here because…?" A hint of accusation had entered her voice. Even though the question was clearly directed at the oncologist, it was House who replied rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. "…because this maniac insists on auscultating my _chest _every five minutes. – I'm fine."

Cuddy spared him only a very short glance. Then, piercing Wilson once more with her gaze: "When you're done here, I'd like to talk to you in my office for a moment." With a last look at the diagnostician, she turned around and left the room.

As soon as she had closed the door behind herself, the two men's eyes met.

It was House who spoke first, suppressing another smile: "Uh oh... Mommy's angry with you."


	3. Chapter 3

"What were you _thinking_?!" Cuddy got up from her chair and approached the oncologist as soon as he had entered her office. "Why the hell didn't you move him to the _ICU_, if his values were bad enough to warrant an IV supplement...?"

Wilson forced himself to hold her accusing gaze. "Because... I didn't think a fight about admitting him would've exactly helped his cardiac status. I didn't want to upset him any more than necessary." She was still giving him an extremely skeptical look, so he calmly added: "True, his potassium was very low. But his heart was showing no signs of arrhythmias yet. I got him on the infusion immediately; and I ran it slowly enough to absolutely minimize the risk of adverse effects. His team knew what was going on. I was with him all the time. - If his condition had deteriorated, he'd have had immediate help there."

Cuddy slowly nodded, apparently accepting the fact that the oncologist had done everything within his power to do what was best for his friend.

"And what's been going on, exactly, now..."

Wilson shrugged. "I... don't know." He started to rub the back of his neck tensely. "He says it's just some virus affecting his GI tract. Some... stomach-flu. - But..." He was talking slowly now, shaking his head. "...I'm not so sure it is. His potassium..." He paused briefly. "He must have had problems for a while, and he must have lost huge amounts of fluids for it go get this bad." Clearly uncomfortable with the situation, he hesitantly met his bosse's inquisitive gaze again. "Right now, I think we should deal with the acute problem of the hypokalemia first, and investigate its true cause later. - Maybe it _is_ just a virus after all..."

Cuddy was frowning slightly by now. "But he would tell us if anything else was seriously wrong, wouldn't he... He'd tell at least you, right?"

Wilson shrugged again, giving a pained half-smile. "Probably... not; no. You know how he is. He'd rather tell everyone he's fine until he collapses, before freely admitting to having a problem. - But we'll have to draw blood daily anyway for a while to monitor his electrolytes. Maybe he'll agree to getting a couple of more tests done while we're at it... Or maybe the _threat_ of testing will get him to tell us what's _really_ going on, in case he does know more..."

Cuddy hesitated briefly, then seriously met the other medic's gaze again. "Could he have upped the vidocin again." Wilson looked surprised for a moment, so she quietly continued, shaking her head almost apologetically. "That might explain the nausea..."

The oncologist slowly shook his head as well, clearly unhappy with the suggestion. "I've been prescribing for him all this time, exactly following Dr Shaminsky's recommendations, ever since he has taken on House's case. He's constantly been on 40 mg for months now. No dosage adjustments at all. And House didn't ask for an early refill _once_. So... Unless he got it somewhere else, he hasn't upped the dosage. - And I don't think he would do that right now... He's been surprisingly committed to the new pain management regimen."

Cuddy slowly nodded. "That was my impression too, but... You never know! Especially with House... For all we know he might be shooting up _morphine_, keeping us all satisfied with the apparent new regimen he's been following. It might just be a _scam;_ he - "

Wilson vigorously shook his head at that. "No. That's impossible. I've been _living_ with him for the first few months of the new program. I would've noticed something. He takes the new medication. And he's _certainly_ not shooting up morphine. - He was never a morphine addict. He only used it when his pain had become _unmanageable_. It is manageable now. - He's not shooting up morphine."

Cuddy nodded again. "Okay. So we'll wait and see if he recovers from this... stomach flu." Wilson met her gaze, giving a slight shrug. "And make sure he'll get through it alright; yeah."

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"Dr Wilson...!" Foreman was close to jogging down the hall to catch up with him.

The oncologist turned towards the younger medic somewhat wearily. Just yesterday House's blood work had finally shown potassium levels within the normal range again. So either the 'stomach issue' was finally settled, or the anti-emetic Wilson strongly suspected his friend was still taking was finally doing its work. Either way, the oncologist was not looking forward to whatever Foreman wanted to discuss with him now. He took a deep breath, meeting the neurologist's somewhat concerned gaze. "Yes! What is it..."

Foreman gave a small sigh. "It's about House."

Wilson nodded. He had feared as much.

"He... fell."

The oncologist immediately frowned in concern, expression surprised. Before he had a chance to further question the neurologist , Foreman already continued.

"He sort of just... lost his balance or something and fell quite badly. Onto the leg..." He raised an eyebrow. "He didn't move at all for a minute. Apparently couldn't even _talk_... When I got him to respond to me, he asked me to help him to his office. I practically had to carry him there... He was in a lot of pain."

Wilson's frown had deepened by now. "Where is he now..."

Foreman rolled his eyes. "In the clinic for once. Probably hiding from all of us... - I thought I'd tell you. He was really not doing well earlier..."

The oncologist nodded. He could imagine...

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The day had been hell. His leg was killing him. - Right now those were the two statements his whole existence could be adequately narrowed down to.

House carefully massaged his leg that was gingerly stretched out in front of him, while he was practically balancing himself on one of the uncomfortable stools in whatever exam room he had found refuge in.

The thigh itself was so tender, he couldn't even touch it right now. He just hoped he wouldn't start cramping any time soon; like this he had no way to ease the muscle spasm should it hit him. Even his foot was so swollen by now, he had been forced to open his shoe an hour ago. The fall earlier had really been the last thing he needed right now...

He had to finally get off his feet, and he knew it. But that would mean first getting up from this fucking stool and going to his car. Driving home. Walking all the way into his apartment. – He didn't think he was up to that.

At exactly that point in his frustrating train of thoughts, he heard a soft knock on the door, followed by Wilson quietly entering the room.

The oncologist took in his friend's pale and drawn features, reflexively trying to assess the other man's condition without being too obvious about it.

"Hey…" He greeted quietly, before casually leaning back against the now closed door.

House just threw him a very short glance, self-consciously removing his hand from his leg that was still stretched out in front of him.

"You done for the day…?" Wilson's tone was carefully controlled, intentionally kept light. House knew it; they both did. Still, those were the rules.

The diagnostician gave a small nod, forcing his features to relax, to not give away just how badly his leg was hurting right now.

"Care for a lift home?" Wilson's voice was still light, innocent, but it was clear he knew that House was in trouble. Still, no need to give up so soon.

"I have my car here; thanks…"

The oncologist rolled his eyes at that. "I know you have. Just figured that... maybe you'd… enjoy being chauffeured for once." He shrugged.

House threw him a weary smile. "Sure you did. – I'm _fine_! Stop worrying…" His voice was gruff; nothing new there…

Wilson slowly nodded, but now kept his gaze fixed on the other man. "Of course you are." Just a hint of sarcasm in his tone. Then, plainly: "Can you get up at all…"

The diagnostician's expression closed off. "I've been _up_ all day, Mom. – Sure I can."

Wilson once more rolled his eyes, before facing his friend again a challenging expression on his face. "Okay. Show me then."

House gave a small half-laugh at that. "I don't need to prove anything to you."

The younger man's face remained impassive. "And I'm not leaving this room until I'm convinced you're good on your own. And that means - at the very least - that you're _ambulatory_."

After another stubborn silence that seemed to stretch forever, House reached for his cane and planted it firmly on the ground. Then he grabbed for one of the cupboards with his left hand and started to slowly push himself to a standing position. His stiff leg responded with an angry stab of white-hot pain, and he felt himself breaking into a cold sweat. Not good.

Keeping his support on the cupboard, he started to lean heavily onto his cane at the same time, trying to get his bearings. He finally raised his head to meet Wilson's gaze; the oncologist was by now frowning slightly, obviously fighting to not let his concern show openly. "See? I'm standing…" He was surprised by how breathless he sounded.

This time the oncologist snorted. "Yeah… Question is for how _long_…" He now simply approached his friend's left side, ready to help him support his weight if he needed it.

When House didn't make any attempt to walk, Wilson eyed him frowning some more. "Do you want me to find you a pair of crutches?" He knew his friend would do a lot better with a _wheel-chair_ right now...

House shook his head, his face tight in an obvious effort to control the pain. "No. I'll be fine. I just need to…"

"…get off that leg. Yeah, I know. - Can you make it to my car?" Wilson's voice was serious now; and plain.

House nodded again. "I think so…" A huge confession.

They made it to the car. But it took them approximately three times as long as it usually would have. House was sweating profusely by the time they arrived, his breath coming in short uneven gasps. He had been additionally leaning on Wilson's arm for the second half of the way, as soon as they had left the building, his leg simply unwilling to support his weight sufficiently right now.

The ride to House's apartment passed in uncomfortable silence, and the diagnostician wordlessly accepted Wilson's help in getting out of the car. That in itself spoke _volumes_ about the difficulties he was experiencing right now.

He made it to the house unaided, simply leaning heavily on his cane for support, but stopped in front of the few stairs leading up to the front door. One hand was going to his bad thigh. He glanced at Wilson uncertainly, the beginnings of slight panic in his eyes. "I think I'm starting to cramp…"

That was it. Without hesitating any longer, the oncologist reached around his friend's waist and took onto himself most of the man's weight. He needed to get him inside, before he would go down.

"Come on, House. Let's try to get you up the stairs; I have you…"

With the additional support, the by now trembling man managed, but only just. As soon as they were inside the apartment, his leg gave way completely and the thigh muscles went into spasm, drawing a startled cry of pain from the medic's throat.

Cringing, Wilson quickly dragged his friend to the couch, instantly lowering him onto it, before carefully lifting his legs up as well. House immediately tried to curl into a fetal position, both hands now clutching his leg. He was visibly swallowing all sounds of pain by now, clenching his teeth, eyes tightly shut.

When another low moan escaped his lips, Wilson touched his upper arm, trying to briefly get his attention. "Where are your meds, House…" Just ragged breathing. Then, through gritted teeth: "Jacket…" Wilson got him one pill and watched his friend trying to ride it out.

When the cramping didn't stop for another couple of minutes, Wilson started to get more and more anxious. "House, listen to me… You need to try and relax. Can you turn onto your back for me? Come on, buddy…" He gently tried to coax the other man into uncurling and lying down flat. Reluctantly House forced himself to obey.

"Okay, that's better…" Wilson had adopted an almost soothing tone by now. When he carefully lifted his friend's bad leg up to elevate it on a couple of cushions, House stifled another pained outcry.

Wilson cringed again. "Okay; I'm sorry, House. - Can I touch it…" He knew this was always a delicate issue. Right now he wasn't sure whether the additional injury his friend had probably taken from the fall earlier today would allow any pressure on the leg at all. So he wasn't surprised when House simply jerked his head in the attempt of a negative response.

"Okay, I won't touch it. Try to relax..." The oncologist gently took hold of his friend's calf and slowly straightened the leg out completely, before carefully starting to stretch the back of the thigh muscles. At first, House arched his back against the additional pain, sharply biting down on his lower lip, but as part of the muscles started to gradually relax, he did as well. His breathing slowly evened out.

When the acute spasm had finally broken, Wilson wordlessly lowered the leg onto the cushion again, before starting to gently massage the muscles in his friend's lower leg. When he felt them slowly losing their tension, he moved his hands to the swollen foot, patiently continuing his gentle ministrations. Half an hour later, he slowly sat back. He wasn't surprised to find House's eyes resting on him.

"Any better?" His gaze was empathic, but not pitying, not sad.

His friend seemed satisfied with what he saw. Giving a tired nod, he released a long breath. "Much. Thank you…"

Wilson nodded, once. "You need to let me have a look... Foreman told me."

The diagnostician closed his eyes, in exhaustion, uneasyness, pain...? Wilson couldn't tell.

"Not right now. Give me a moment, okay?"

The oncologist slowly nodded. "Sure. - You up for some dinner?"

An almost disgusted grimace was his only response.

"Come on, House, you need to eat something. A little bit. Maybe some soup?" He gently coaxed.

Suddenly, the older man gave a pained half-laugh. "Will you ever stop acting like my Mom...?"

Wilson answered with a small smile, eyes resting on his friend's closed ones. "I don't think so."


	4. Chapter 4

"You finished...?" Wilson nodded towards House's half-empty bowl of soup, fighting to suppress a fresh wave of concern, when he mentally cataloged how little his friend had eaten today. A wordless nod was his only response.

The oncologist took his time to wash the dishes in House's kitchen, giving the other man some more time to rest before joining him again. His friend had been lying down on the couch again by the time he returned to the living-room, bad leg once more elevated on a small cushion, his forearm draped across his eyes. For a moment, Wilson thought he had fallen asleep, but then he noticed House's right hand was balled to a fist. So he was still in pain...

Even though he hated the prospect of having to force the other man to move again right now, he also knew there was no way around it, if he wanted to get any sleep at all tonight... Sighing internally, the oncologist held a hand out towards his friend.

"Come on, House... - Sit up and let me just quickly check you out. Make sure you're okay. Then you can get some sleep..."

The older man slowly removed his arm from his face, opening his eyes and calmly meeting the oncologist's concerned gaze. "Not necessary." The exhaustion was evident in his voice, but it didn't quite cover an undertone of stubborn determination. He was clearly not ready to give in to his friend's demands that easily. "I'm a doctor myself, in case you forgot. There's nothing wrong with me, other than a few bruises..."

Wilson rolled his eyes, mumbling under his breath: "Here we go again..." Then, more loudly again: "House; just a brief look… We'll be done in a couple of minutes."

The other man shook his head tiredly. "It's fine, Wilson, I really – "

Holding up a hand to interrupt him, the oncologist tried not to sound as frustrated as he was feeling right now. "House, please… You could barely _stand_ earlier! We need to make sure there's no serious damage..." To House's hesitant gaze, he quietly added in a gentler tone: "It's no big deal; I'll make this real quick. – Nothing there I haven't seen before…"

Something flashed in his friend's eyes at that. "Doesn't mean I have to like you poking and prodding around at it..."

But despite the grumbled words, the diagnostician now reluctantly took the offered hand and allowed Wilson to slowly help him first to a sitting, then to a standing position. Consciously shifting his entire weight onto his good leg, he used his left hand to quickly open his jeans, still holding onto the oncologist for support with his right one.

Wilson reflexively drew his breath in sharply as soon as he caught sight of the massive bruise obliterating the area around the old scar, and the swelling clearly visible along large parts of the thigh. "Okay…", voice rising towards the end of the word, "…no _wonder_ you can barely stand..."

He carefully guided House to sit down again. "Lie back for me. Let me see this with the muscles relaxed…" He waited for the older man to move both legs up onto the couch again and gingerly get settled half on his back, half on his left side. His features relaxed a little, when Wilson thoughtfully pushed a cushion under his right knee, taking some strain off the leg.

The oncologist started his examination by very gently probing an area just above the knee that was even more swollen than the rest of the thigh. The knee itself seemed fine, which was at least something, but as soon as Wilson touched anything above the joint, he could feel his friend go increasingly tense. When he finally approached the bruise around the old scar lightening his touch some more, the oncologist could see his friend clench both hands to fists, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

"I'll be real careful, House. Try to relax…" A minute nod from the other man told him he was as ready as he would get.

As soon as he pressed down lightly on the damaged tissue, House's breath caught, his face paling some more.

"Deep breath, House... Come on; stay with me..." He concentrated on keeping his tone light, talking soothingly, even though he knew the other man would probably give him hell for that when this was all over...

After a couple of minutes of careful probing, Wilson slowly sat back removing his hands from the painful leg. He heard House release a long breath, some of the tension finally leaving his body again.

"We should get an MRI..."

The diagnostician abruptly met his gaze at that. "Why..."

Wilson shrugged, mentally preparing himself for yet another argument. "To make sure there's no serious damage. Check for damage to the remaining muscle tissue; exclude the possibility of a fracture..."

House snorted at that, sounding very tense. "There's nothing broken, Wilson! I wouldn't be moving around like I am, if I had a femoral fracture…"

The oncologist slowly nodded. "You might be, if it was a _hairline _fracture… Your femur is not as well protected by muscles as it usually would be; you know that…"

The diagnostician gave a bitter half-laugh at that. "Oh, believe me. I _do_ know…" Then, flatly: "No MRI."

Wilson patiently held his gaze. "House. Just to be on the safe side..."

The older man's expression was pissed by now. "I let you _look_ at it to be on the safe side. – I'm fine, Wilson. Or at least I'm not seriously injured. It's just very touchy with stuff like this…" He vaguely gestured towards his thigh.

This time the oncologist snorted. "Yeah, well... My leg would also not be happy with contusions like these... You seem to have fallen pretty hard." He continued more quietly, obviously carefully choosing his words: "I'm somewhat... surprised you didn't manage to catch yourself better, or at least avoid falling directly onto that leg. You usually - " He paused briefly, then started again closely watching his friend now. "How did it happen anyway...?" If he attempted to sound casual in his questioning, he failed miserably.

The older man threw him a short glance. "Thought you _knew_ everything already..." When Wilson didn't reply anything seemingly waiting for him to say something more, House reluctantly continued. "I just stumbled. That can happen sometimes, you know...? Just a stupid accident. – I haven't been exactly secure on my feet the last couple of years, in case you hadn't noticed..."

Wilson raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh. You're usually secure enough. Usually there's a _reason_ for you to 'stumble'. Icy pavement; slippery floor; something like that. And Foreman didn't say you _stumbled_ – he says you seem to have lost your _balance_." Tone almost accusing now.

House met his critical gaze evenly, giving a small shrug. "So what? Guess I was a little dizzy. Electrolytes are probably still somewhat out of balance..."

The oncologist shook his head at that. "They were fine yesterday..."

The older man raised an eyebrow now, voice angry. "Did I fall _yesterday_?!"

Silence.

Wilson slowly nodded, eventually, his expression unreadable. "Okay, then! Let's draw another round of blood; see where your 'lytes are _today_." No response from the injured man. "You got something here for that, or do I need to get back to the clinic first..." House just wordlessly gestured towards his bathroom.

The oncologist returned with the necessary equipment a minute later, quietly starting to prepare a vein. His hand suddenly went from his friend's left forearm to his forehead. He instantly frowned in concern. "D'you have a _fever_?!"

Jerking his head away from the other man's touch, House rolled his eyes. "I'm just sore."

The younger man shook his head. "No... You're really _warm_. Where do you have a thermometer...?" When the diagnostician just shrugged in response, Wilson's eyes narrowed. "House." Sternly. "How long have you been running a temperature."

House responded with a short, almost guilty glance. "Couple of days, I guess..." When the oncologist took a deep breath, obviously intending to reply something, he quickly continued: "But it's no big deal, Wilson. Probably also just the virus..."

His friend eyed him seriously. "House. If there's something wrong with you, you need to tell me. I don't know why you're fighting me like this! I just want to... Well, you _know_ that I just wanna make sure you're okay... I wish you'd let me know what's going on."

For a moment he thought that House actually wanted to reply, tell him something he hadn't said so far. But then the older man just nodded, voice tired. "Yeah. Well... You know as much as I do..."

Wilson very much doubted that.


	5. Chapter 5

After Wilson had drawn some blood as planned, he helped House get settled for the night. The older man was clearly exhausted from his illness and the day's events, and when the oncologist returned from the kitchen with a couple of ice packs for his leg, he had already fallen asleep.

Gently placing one cooling pad onto the scar region and another one onto the swollen area right above his friend's knee, Wilson had to smile slightly at the very soft snoring sounds that escaped the sleeping man. It was amazing how peaceful House instantly appeared as soon as he was asleep, and how much that contrasted with his often so acrid demeanor whenever he was conscious. And it was amazing how much moments like these were able to compensate Wilson for all the stuff he put up with in exchange for this 'screwed-up friendship', as he himself had once called it.

Carefully pulling the blanket back into place, the oncologist's gaze suddenly fell on House's medication that he had placed on the nightstand next to his bed. Three bottles, which he himself had prescribed for his friend, exactly following the instructions of the pain specialist House had been consulting for the past few months. The arrangement was working surprisingly well so far, with House keeping regular appointments with Dr Shaminsky to keep the pain management as effective as possible. Right now he was on 30-40 mg hydrocodone a day, supplemented by the same anti-convulsant and anti-depressant Shaminsky had put him on after their first meeting. The mix of different drugs seemed to be very effective, leaving his friend with average pain levels that were much more tolerable than they had been in years.

There was no way House was lying about all of this. Wilson had been shocked about Cuddy's assumption regarding the morphine. True, the diagnostician had never hesitated to do what he thought was best to deal with his pain, regardless of what everyone _around him_ was thinking. But unless left with no other choice, he had never lied about it. And he did have a choice now. Shaminsky was very consequent about directly involving House in all the decisions they made medication-wise, and Wilson had kept his promise to function as a mediator between House and Cuddy with everything regarding this subject. So most of the pressure had been taken from the diagnostician, and he didn't have a reason to lie about his medication or the dosage of the narcotic now.

Sure, all those months House had been _forced_ to handle everything without opiates against his will hadn't left him untouched; they had certainly left theirs scars... He had been completely alone with the problem of dealing with intolerable amounts of pain, on a daily basis, for more than half a year. Wilson still cringed inwardly when he forced himself to try and imagine the helplessness his friend must have felt; the desperation. But it wasn't like that now. Now, he had all the help he needed with no-one working against him. He didn't have a reason to hide anything. And he _certainly_ didn't have a reason to secretly shoot up _morphine_.

Wilson angrily shook his head, when he caught himself unconsciously following Cuddy's train of thoughts. Abuse of a narcotic wouldn't explain the fever anyway… If House was hiding something, it wasn't a morphine addiction.

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Wilson woke up to the sound of glass shattering. Abruptly sitting up, it took him a moment to orient himself and realize that he was on his best friend's couch. It was no longer dark outside, but the very faint sounds coming up from the street told him it was still early.

"House…?" The oncologist quickly pushed back his blanket. He was relieved to at least get an immediate reply: "Kitchen. – And it was just a glass…"

So House was conscious, which was good, but he sounded a little off. Bracing himself for whatever his friend might have done _now_, Wilson went straight to the other room.

He found House awkwardly balancing himself with the help of a crutch, while using the other one to push glass shards to a pile in one of the room's corners. He made no attempt to pick anything up.

And Wilson was instantly glad he didn't, as soon as he got a better view of his friend's face, which was pale and sweaty; his hands were shaking.

"House – stop that!" Quickly approaching the older man, he halted his actions by placing a hand on the crutch that he was currently using as a makeshift broom. Wilson frowned at how unstable he seemed to be on his feet. "Sit down and let me handle this… You look like shit. – How are you feeling…?"

House threw him a piercing glance but slowly moved backwards with the help of both crutches, sinking down on one of the kitchen chairs with a grunt. "Like shit…"

Wilson quickly cleaned up what was left of the glass, before turning towards his friend again, eyeing him critically. Right now, he was gingerly holding both sides of his right thigh, carefully avoiding the most badly bruised areas.

"Leg's been cramping like crazy all night. – Don't think I'm up to working today…"

The oncologist nodded slowly. "Yeah... I think that's a wise decision. _Surprisingly_ wise for you actually…" He brushed the back of his hand against the other man's forehead before his friend had a chance to dodge it. "You're still running a temperature." A brief pause; then: "How's your stomach?"

House threw him a short glance, before placing his head on his arms, which he had folded on the kitchen table. "Can't tell with the anti-emetic…", was the muffled response.

Wilson nodded again. "Sit up. I wanna listen to your lungs…" When House just moaned in response, unable or unwilling to deal with his displeasure silently right now, the oncologist simply left the room in search of the other man's old stethoscope.

When he returned, his friend still hadn't moved. "Come on, House. Give me a break here... – I just wanna listen to your breath sounds for a minute; make sure you're not coming down with pneumonia. – Hydrocodone can do that to you, you know?"

House snorted at that. "What – cause you pneumonia?!"

The oncologist rolled his eyes at his friend's antics. "No, of course not. But it suppresses the cough reflex, which keeps you from bringing _up_ whatever might cause you to develop pneumonia…"

The other man impatiently sat up at that. "Yeah, yeah, yeah… I know. But my lungs are fine."

Wilson nodded, clearly determined now. "Good! – Humor me then…"

Rolling his eyes, House obediently leaned back against the chair's backrest. "Be my guest…" Grumbling, but apparently resigned to his fate.

The oncologist carefully listened to his friend's breathing for a moment, before shifting the stethoscope from the chest to his back. "Okay, deep breath now…" House exaggeratedly inhaled for about half a minute, causing Wilson to roll his eyes again. "Hold it." He did.

The oncologist nodded. "Breath sounds are good."

House started to move beneath his hands. "Told you so…" He suddenly seemed restless.

Ignoring his friend's obvious desire to be done with it, Wilson moved the stethoscope onto his chest again, causing the older man to impatiently roll his eyes. "What now…"

The oncologist replied with a small frown. "You're tachycardic."

House returned his mildly concerned gaze, face impassive. "I have a fever."

The younger man nodded pensively. "Yeah…"

Then, unable to stop himself: "The shaking, the sweating, the nausea; the elevated heart-rate and temperature… - One could almost think you were detoxing."

House sharply looked up at him. "What. – I'm on massive amounts of vicodin – or better yet morphine – and can't take it now because you're here? Or because I'm out and can't get my hands on more?!" The oncologist didn't say anything for a moment. "And _one_ could think that – or _you_ do?"

Wilson forced himself to remain calm, focused. He owed his friend that much. "One. – House… All I'm saying is: It can't be a stomach bug. Your symptoms don't fit!"

The diagnostician's expression hardened. "On the contrary. They fit _perfectly_. – Virus causes fever, which causes the chills and the sweating. Virus also accounts for the puking, which messes up my electrolytes, which makes me dizzy and shaky. Heart-rate's elevated because of the fever; and the pain – caused by the fall, caused by the dizziness."

Even though he was talking very rationally, Wilson could tell that he was getting agitated. His expression softened, when he saw how much energy this argument seemed to cost his friend.

"Okay. How about we get you back to bed now and you just rest today…" No response. "House?" Just a tired nod.

When the diagnostician had awkwardly pushed himself to his feet and struggled with the crutches, Wilson wordlessly started to give him some more support on his left side. He was surprised when House suddenly let go of the left crutch moaning, instantly leaning most of his weight into Wilson instead, almost sagging against him. He was even more surprised, when the diagnostician oddly glanced down at his lower extremities, before throwing the oncologist an almost panicked look. "I don't think this is such a good idea…"


	6. Chapter 6

Before Wilson could question him about what the hell was going on, House suddenly tensed, desperately biting back what seemed to be a strangled cry of pain. Shocked by the sudden agony his friend seemed to be experiencing, and unsure as to what was actually hurting him, the oncologist carefully lowered him to the kitchen floor. House's legs supported the movement little to not-at-all, and so it was all Wilson could do to try and make the downward motion as slow as possible to cushion the impact of his friend's body with the floor.

As soon as he was sitting, House leaned sidewards and started to curl in on himself, once more desperately holding his thigh in places that seemed to be a little less tender than the rest. The leg was obviously in full spasm once again. Shit… A leg spasm was always very bad, but with this kind of bruising on his thigh…

Before he could even think about how to react, the oncologist noticed House take one hand away from his crippled leg and use it to press into the muscles of his _left_ thigh hard. So that was the reason why he hadn't been able to stand at all a minute ago… But cramping in _both_ legs?

Unsure if he was supposed to get a muscle relaxant or just help his friend work on the spasms with massages, heat, or ice, Wilson lightly grasped the other man's left arm to get his attention through the pain. "House…" He was startled by the almost violent response his questioning touch was causing.

"Get the _hell_ out of here! Just… leave me alone!" House was very nearly screaming at him.

All those years at the other man's side had taught the oncologist to translate the hostile reaction into what it really was: House giving voice to his frustration, embarrassment, anger; and pain. Still slightly taken aback by the _sharpness _of the outbreak, Wilson reflexively drew back, giving the diagnostician some space.

But when his friend couldn't hold back another low moan, closing his eyes against the uncontrollable agony radiating through his legs and visibly trembling by now, he calmly reached out again. Gently pushing against the older man's left hand, Wilson concentrated on keeping his voice even. "I'm not going anywhere… No matter _what _you say; you're stuck with me. – So you might as well let me work on the left one while I'm here…"

The anger on his friend's face seemed to intensify, but he finally removed his own hand from his left thigh and granted the oncologist access, using both hands again now to carefully support his right leg, which was still jerking and trembling uncontrollably.

Glad that the diagnostician seemed to accept his presence for now, Wilson started to methodically massage his left leg with firm, practiced strokes, calming the muscles and easing the cramp in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, the spasm on the right side was very reluctant to break on its own, and after what seemed like an eternity to Wilson, his friend was still writhing in pain on the floor, his breaths coming in choked gasps by now, sweat pouring down the sides of his ghostly pale face.

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep the worry in check, Wilson knelt down close to the other man's head, gently but firmly grasping a trembling shoulder. "House… I know it hurts, but we should try stretching the muscle again. It helped yesterday…"

At first the other man didn't react at all to the oncologist's gentle words, but when another violent spasm drew a choked cry of pain from him, he closed his eyes resignedly, giving a small nod.

This was good enough for Wilson, who reacted immediately, gently taking hold of his friend's calf and carefully starting to straighten the leg out. The knee seemed very reluctant to serve its function though, and the oncologist almost let go of the leg again when House suddenly cried out in earnest after a small movement of the joint.

Fighting to control his breathing, the suffering man pressed through gritted teeth: "Just the swelling… - Go ahead."

Grimacing as if in physical pain himself, Wilson did as he was told, very gently working on straightening the leg out and giving some pressure against it to carefully stretch the back of the thigh muscles again.

It seemed to help a little, but not as much as Wilson had hoped, and so he found himself gently massaging the cramping leg wherever he could touch it after all, until the spasm eventually released its hold on the tortured limb.

House fell back on the kitchen floor limply, one hand now covering his forehead, eyes closed.

When he had finally gotten his breathing more or less under control again, his eyes opened, searching Wilson's by now openly concerned gaze. He seemed annoyed by what he saw.

"Stop staring at me already! It's just cramping…"

Wilson fixed him with a stern glance. "In both legs…"

House just nodded, response dry. "Obviously."

The oncologist eyed him pensively for a few moments. Then, quietly: "Think we can try and move you over to the bedroom now? Can't be very comfortable down there…"

The older man raised an eyebrow at the feeble attempt to lighten the situation. Then, averting his gaze in what might have been embarrassment: "Not sure trying to walk again would be such a good idea right now…" _Can't deal with another one of those right now…_ He didn't need to say the last part out loud. "It's okay, just – "

Wilson raised both eyebrows, abruptly interrupting him: "… leave you here on the kitchen floor for the rest of the day, while I go to work? – Sure; I'll just do that." Voice dripping of sarcasm. Then, imploringly: "You're already sick, House! There's no way you can stay on that goddamn floor!" Wilson chose his next words carefully, concentrating on making them sound casual: "You know… I could always – "

He was interrupted by his friend, before he could even finish the thought. "Forget it. No way in hell."

Of course. The stubborn bastard would rather _crawl_ to his bedroom over blistering-hot shards of _glass_, before allowing someone to carry him…

The oncologist rolled his eyes. "House… it's not – "

Even from his supine position on the floor, the older man's voice held an authority that didn't leave much room for debate. "I said _no_, Wilson, and I meant it."

The younger man slowly nodded. "How about the couch then…? It's not that far. I could take most of your weight and if you just concentrate on keeping your balance… - Come on, House; we can do this." He held his hands out to the other man, who regarded them doubtfully.

When his friend finally grasped them, Wilson gently pulled him to a sitting position. Then he crouched down next to the other man, pulling House's right arm across his own shoulders while at the same time reaching around his waist. Slowly standing up, he brought the older man's body up with him and waited for him to nod his okay, before slowly starting to walk towards the living room, supporting most of House's weight.

Trying to distract them both, he quietly stated: "Guess you were right about the electrolytes after all… I'll have the blood we drew analyzed in the clinic, then we'll see what you need and I can bring it with me later today." A tense nod was his only reply.

He gently lowered his friend onto the couch. "I thought you said the anti-emetic was working…" Tone slightly questioning.

House averted his gaze. "It is."

Wilson frowned at that. "Then why…"

An impatient jerk of the older man's head cut him off. "Takes some time for everything to stabilize. You know that."

The oncologist kept his eyes fixed on his friend without answering. Right now, he had no idea what was going on in the other man's head…

Eventually, he addressed his friend calmly again. "I'll go get you some breakfast. What do you want?"

House very briefly met his gaze. "Coffee's fine…"

The oncologist sighed unhappily. "Come on, House! I'll be gone for a couple of hours! You can't just live on _coffee_ till then… - How about some cereals?"

The other man replied with a half-hearted shrug. "Whatever…"

Ten minutes later, Wilson brought him some light breakfast, a cup of coffee, and his meds. He noticed with a frown how House took his usual dose of vicodin and gabapentin but ignored the third bottle.

"What about the paroxetine?" He desperately tried to sound casual, failing miserably.

House threw him a short glance. "I only take it at night now…"

Wilson's frown deepened. "Shaminsky didn't say anything about that to me…" Tone a mixture of suspicious and questioning.

The older man responded calmly: "We only just agreed upon it. Guess he didn't come around to it yet…"

Wilson didn't take his gaze off the other man. "That's strange… I talked to him just yesterday. – When did you two make the new arrangement…?"

House shrugged. "Last meeting. About two weeks ago…"

The oncologist looked at him suspiciously. Then, in an almost challenging tone: "I guess you wouldn't mind if I called him about it?"

The diagnostician met his gaze, knowing from the way Wilson was squinting his eyes at him that the younger man was trying to judge the truthfulness of his statements. He finally shrugged again. "If you don't trust what I'm saying… Sure not! Call him…"

Wilson rolled his eyes at that. "Well, sorry if I'm not always a hundred percent certain that you're completely straight with me. Since you've _never _bent the truth before, that's _really _unfair of me…" The side of the older man's mouth quirked up slightly at that.

Wilson nodded. "Okay then! Do you need anything else or will you be okay for a couple of hours…" A glare was the only response House granted him.

The oncologist raised his hands in a defeated gesture. "I know, I know… You're fine, you don't need any _help_, you'd be good on your own for the next _decade_, I can leave…" They exchanged brief half-smiles.

Before he left, Wilson brought the crutches and a couple of cooling pads from the kitchen, and handed House the portable phone. "But seriously. Call me if – "

House snatched it from his hand. " – I'm dying, yeah yeah yeah."

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Wilson finished his day early, returning to his friend's apartment around 3 pm. He found the diagnostician still resting on his couch, awake and apparently relatively relaxed. He handed him a sheet of test results by way of greeting. "Sodium's a bit on the low side… Otherwise they don't look so bad."

House eyed the result sheet, a disinterested look on his face. "Low sodium would be enough to cause the cramping."

Wilson slowly nodded. "Might be, yeah…" He didn't sound entirely convinced, but when he didn't add anything else, House turned his attention towards the TV again.

Wilson didn't move. "How's the fever?" He kept his gaze fixed on his friend, but controlled his features to reflect indifference.

House briefly glanced up at him. "Better."

When he saw the oncologist reach out towards him, he leaned his head back in mock-resignation, giving him full access to his forehead. Wilson touched his face briefly, then pulled his hand back smiling minutely.

"You're right; seems lower. – Would be nice to be able to _objectify_ that impression, but since you cannot seem to remember where you keep your thermometer…?" When he saw House grin at him, the oncologist added with a shrug. "Guess I'll just bring one from the clinic tomorrow…"

"Speaking of which…" He was already heading towards the kitchen now to prepare some dinner for the two of them. "I have an appointment outside the clinic tomorrow morning. - But I told Chase to come here and pick you up for work, if you feel up to it…"

House's head shot up at that. "You told the _wombat_ to come to my _personal home_?! – Have you lost your _mind_?!?"

Wilson smirked, glad that his friend couldn't see him right now. He kept his voice straight. "Well, at least you won't have to put up with any overly-concerned pampering from Cameron before 9 then…"

For a moment, nothing but silence met his comment. Then: "Have you given him _my key_?!"

Wilson's smile grew, while he started to prepare the food he was about to cook. "Nope. – Not yet… - I'll drop by him later."

A heartfelt moan was House's only response.

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That night, Wilson drove home with an actually almost good feeling. House was definitely doing better: His fever was down, he hadn't had any more muscle spasms, his heart-rate had almost returned to normal, and the shaking and sweating had both decreased. The only downside was that his leg seemed to have been very painful today, but that wasn't really surprising with all that bruising and the repeated spasms...

In the light of the man's improvement, Wilson actually considered cancelling the appointment with Dr Shaminsky he had arranged for the next day. He felt slightly bad for going behind his friend's back like that anyway.

But the sudden dosage reduction of the SSRI, and the fact that he hadn't been informed about it, still puzzled him. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to that. And Shaminsky was - besides himself - House's only currently treating physician after all, so it was logical to consult with him regarding the diagnostician's somewhat strange symptoms lately. Now that House seemed to be improving, Wilson was not so sure if that last argument was still valid, but it couldn't hurt to finally meet the man, whom he was sharing medical care for his friend with, in person after all…

The next morning, he made his way to Dr Shaminsky's office early. He was actually looking forward to meeting the guy; he was a coryphaeus in his field of medicine and House seemed to get along rather well with him, which in itself was worth exploring…

Searching for a parking space, Wilson had to chuckle slightly when he thought about Chase and House and how they would get along in the unusually personal context of his friend's apartment. He was sure that he'd asked the right person though. At least Chase could be depended on to be strictly unsympathetic; he'd do exactly what Wilson had asked him to do, without smothering his friend with unwanted compassion or misguided displays of pity. Nothing for House to fear in this respect…

It was only when his cell phone suddenly started to ring seconds after he had shaken hands with Dr Shaminsky for the first time, when Wilson felt a slight feeling of unease settle somewhere near his stomach. Excusing himself, he checked the caller ID. Chase…

Forcing himself to suppress a sudden onset of undefined panic, the oncologist answered with a steady voice. "Wilson here… What's up?" He was surprised by how calm he sounded, when he felt his heart pound so quickly in his chest.

Chase didn't answer right away. Then, in a strangely toneless voice: "I'm at House's apartment. - I cannot wake him up."

Wilson felt literally unable to breathe for a moment; a verbal response was absolutely out of the question.

The Australian suddenly spoke again, this time with an undertone of surprise and barely conceiled panic: "I think he's in a coma."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hey folks... With all those nice reviews I thought I'd update early for once... :) I'd like to apologize beforehand for all the medical stuff discussed in the following chapter. I hope it's not too much... And one other thing that's been on my mind: I'd like to thank **Dr.Fantabulous** for all the nice comments and for reviewing practically each new chapter! It's a pity I can never reply to you personally, because you don't leave an email-address... :)

So... Enough said - here's chapter 7:

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When Wilson and Dr Shaminsky arrived at the ER, Cuddy and House's team were already waiting. The oncologist seemed pale and somewhat shaky, his gaze shifting nervously from Chase to Cuddy and back again. "What the hell happened?!"

The intensivist met his gaze, also visibly shaken, but clearly trying to cover it up.

"He didn't open the door, so I used the key you gave me. I found him on his bed, unconscious. I couldn't rouse him. He was basically unresponsive to pain stimuli... – So, I called you and the ambulance, and brought him in…"

Cuddy nodded at him, indicating she would continue updating the oncologist. Her tone was soothing. "He has a good chance to make it. – His heartbeat was irregular, and his O2 sats were in the lower eighties when he came in, but I think we caught it early enough. I already ordered the emergency team to put him on naloxone to counteract the opiates and on N-acetylcysteine for the acteminophen poisening."

Wilson's expression instantly reflected his shock at her statement. "What… - This is not a vicodin overdose…!", he stated emphatically, staring at her as if she had lost her mind.

Cuddy patiently returned his almost panicked gaze. "Dr Wilson. – He's in a coma; he's in respiratory distress. And he is on long-term narcotic treatment! This is an overdose, if I ever saw one…"

The oncologist seemed to get even more agitated, shaking his head and eyeing her imploringly. "He didn't OD on the vicodin! This… is a mistake! We have to run some tests first. Find out what's really going on…!"

She placed a gentle hand on his arm, sighing. "James. I'm sorry. I know this must be very disappointing for you. - But we all know the risks of dealing with narcotics on a daily basis. - House is deeply unconscious and he presents with acute signs of respiratory depression! This – " She was talking very slowly now, as if explaining something to a small child. " – is an opiate overdose."

Wilson nervously went with a hand through his hair, still shaking his head slightly. "You… don't know that! – Just because he's been on a class III narcotic and lost consciousness, doesn't mean that this is an OD! – He's been sick for days! It might just as well be something else. You might be causing more harm with the medication you've put him on…!"

Cuddy's gaze hardened at that. "If he ODed, and we don't do anything to counteract the poisening, he might die. And his liver is _definitely _done for, without the NAC to protect it from the I-don't-even-wanna-_know-_how-many grams of paracetamol coursing through his blood stream right now! – The risk we are taking with the medication, in case this was _not_ a vicodin overdose, is slim in comparison to the risk we'd be taking if we didn't do anything! – I'm fairly sure this was a garden-variety opiate overdose. It's simply the most probable explanation! And we cannot risk _not _giving him the meds on the _off-chance_ that it was something else…"

Wilson was still staring at her. "This is not a vicodin overdose, Cuddy. – He, he… wouldn't have done that!" He gestured in the direction of the ER to emphasize his point. "He wasn't doing well the last couple of days. I'm sure his… _illness_… is also connected with the coma. – You have to stop the medicine you ordered. He didn't OD."

She returned his gaze steadily. "Are you willing to bet his life on that…?" Then, in a low hiss: "This wouldn't have been the first time! You know that!" She eyed him pensively for a moment, then stated grimacing slightly: "You don't want this to be an OD, because you want to believe that your trust in him wasn't misplaced!"

Wilson's eyes narrowed at that. "No… You _want _it to be an OD, because then you could tell yourself that your insane actions a couple of months ago were actually justified!"

For just a moment, the entire waiting area was dominated by stunned silence.

Then Chase turned towards Cuddy as well, obviously intent on getting back on the subject. "While you're right that it _could_ be a narcotic overdose, I also think that it might be something else." He looked somewhat nervous contradicting the dean of medicine. "I mean… He _is _comatose and he _isn't _breathing well. – But his BP isn't particularly low, and if anything he's _tachycardic_, not _bradycardic_. And his pupils are dilated, which you wouldn't really expect after an opiate OD. – And if it _is _something else, Dr Wilson's right; we don't know what the NAC might be doing to him."

Cuddy was eyeing him patiently, replying in a calm but insistent voice. "Dr Chase. Would you like to be the one to tell House that he needs a new liver, when he wakes up to find that we didn't treat him for acetaminophen poisening? Even though a vicodin overdose was the most probable diagnostic option we had?"

Before the younger medic had the chance to reply anything, the head of the ER team suddenly exited the treatment room, directly approaching the dean of medicine.

"He's getting worse. – He just had a pretty bad seizure, and his temp's suddenly spiking." Cuddy paled slightly at the news.

Dr Shaminsky now spoke for the first time, clearly addressing the ER doc. "How high?"

The young medic met his questioning gaze. "105."

Wilson turned towards the pain specialist at that, frowning slightly. "What are you thinking?"

Shaminsky shook his head slightly. "About a month ago, Dr House informed me that he wanted to try and reduce the dosage of the SSRI. – I told him I wouldn't recommend changing anything in a well-working pain management regimen, unless there were side-effects or other complications. I asked him if he was _experiencing _any lasting side-effects from the paroxetine. – He said nothing serious, except for some restlessness. He wanted to try and reduce it a bit." All eyes were resting on the pain specialist by now. "He called me again a couple of days after that to tell me he'd re-adjusted the dosage due to significantly increased pain-levels after the reduction. I okayed it."

Chase's face suddenly lit up in understanding, before his expression almost immediately turned incredulous. "You're thinking _serotonin syndrome_?! You think he might have started to develop one, recognized the symptoms and therefore tried to reduce the SSRI?" He shook his head. "If he'd thought he was developing a serotonin syndrome, he wouldn't have increased the dosage again, even if his pain had started to get worse. That would have been suicidal! He wouldn't have risked it… - And it would be extremely untypical to develop a serotonin syndrome months after starting him on the SSRI…"

Shaminsky returned his gaze, a serious expression on his face. "While serotonin syndrome usually has a very acute onset, it might also have shown a delayed appearance, if something in his metabolism had changed in the meantime. All the more, since the SSRI is not the only component possibly causing it. Opiates have also been shown to be able to evoke a serotonin syndrome, particularly when administered in combination with an SSRI. Maybe he has been processing the paroxetine or the vicodin more slowly lately. Or maybe the serotonin-imbalance in his brain, associated with the depression he has certainly been suffering from, has regulated itself by now, causing the SSRI to lead to an excess of the neurotransmitter. – Could be a lot of things." He shrugged. "Serotonin syndrome would account for all the symptoms Dr Wilson told me about on the way here. The nausea, the sweating, the dizzyness and coordination problems… The tachycardia, the fever… And now the coma. Even the respiratory insufficiency…"

Foreman nodded pensively. "Would also explain why the NAC made him worse. As an NMDA receptor antagonist, it attenuates glutamatergic neurotransmission, which would in turn stimulate _serotonin _receptor mediated transmission. – With the NAC we indirectly boosted the serotonin concentration in his cerebral cortex enormously. And this on top of a possible serotonin syndrome that has already led to a coma… - He's lucky if he comes out of this with complete neuronal function."

When Cuddy didn't respond anything immediately, Cameron quietly concluded: "So… We should basically stop all the medicine he's been taking lately, including what we gave him here, and start him on methysergid or cyproheptadin to counteract the serotonin syndrome. If we were right, he should come out of the coma in the next 6 to 12 hours."

Cuddy crossed her arms in front of her chest defensively. "But if it _was _an overdose after all, we lose his liver."

It was Foreman who responded with a half-snort. "And if it's not, and you continue the NAC, we fry his brain."

Chase nodded. "And he's been getting worse with the OD treatment. So… Obviously that's not it. We need to stop the NAC immediately, start him on cyproheptadin, get him on plenty of fluids to secure his kidney function, and try to bring his temperature down."

Cuddy shook her head slightly, clearly unsure about how to proceed. "He'll _kill _us, if he loses an organ because all of you were too naïve to consider a _coma _in an _opiate addict _might be related to an _overdose_!"

Chase met her gaze steadily, countering immediately: "He'll _kill us_, if he loses _brain function _because we concluded it _had _to be."

The dean of medicine just stared at the younger medic for long moments, before finally facing the ER doc again, her expression conveying her unhappiness with what she was about to say.

"Stop the NAC; start him on cyproheptadin. - And pray that you're all right about this."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thanks a lot to everyone for the feedback you gave me for the last chapter... Sorry, if Cuddy came across as 'evil'; that wasn't my intention at all! She just had a different opinion regarding House's condition than the rest of the doctors, but from her perspective she was trying to do what was best for him. --- And without some opposing positions, where would be the fun really...?! ;)  
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**Anyway... Hope you enjoy the next chapter!**

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About an hour later, Cuddy had asked House's team to monitor their boss's condition in the ICU, and moved any further discussion with Wilson and Dr Shaminsky to her office. House hadn't had any more seizures since they had switched medications, and his temperature had come down a bit again. It seemed as if the treatment for serotonin syndrome, caused by the SSRI in addition to the vicodin he had been taking, was working.

Cuddy gestured for both Wilson and the pain specialist to sit down on the large leather sofa, while pulling the chair out from behind her desk and sitting down as well.

"So… What now." She asked no-one in particular.

Wilson shrugged slightly in response, choosing his words carefully, unwilling to risk another confrontation with his boss after the sharp words they had exchanged earlier. "We wait for him to come out of the coma. It shouldn't be more than a couple of hours, if there are… no more complications."

Cuddy raised an eyebrow. "You mean, if the NAC I gave him hasn't done any critical damage." Tone slightly accusing.

The oncologist shook his head, forcing himself to calmly meet her gaze. "No; that's not what I meant. – You did what you thought was best for him. You had to decide very quickly; it was a difficult situation…"

Interrupting their discussion, Dr Shaminsky gently tried to steer them back towards more pressing issues. "We need to think about what to do when he regains consciousness. – The naloxone will have neutralized most of the opiates in his system, and unfortunately it also counteracts the effect of pain-lowering endorphins the body produces naturally… - He'll be in acute withdrawal and in a lot of pain when he wakes up. Since opiates, and everything else interacting with the serotonergic system, are out of the question right now, we need to think about other ways to minimize his discomfort." He shifted his gaze from one to the other, before continuing. "And… We must also be prepared for symptoms elicited by the abrupt discontinuation of the SSRI, which is usually not recommended. We will have to expect nausea, dizziness, electric shock like sensations, but also affective symptoms, particularly anxiety, nightmares, suicidal ideations…"

The expression of concern on Wilson's face intensified, and he started to tensely rub the back of his neck. "Well… Non-opiate pain meds should all be possible, right? Ibuprofen, aspirin, naproxen, paracetamol…?"

Shaminsky nodded hesitantly. "I would go a little easy on the paracetamol right now; at least for the next couple of days. It has been known to interact with certain kinds of serotonin receptors, so we should be a bit careful. But the others you mentioned shouldn't cause any harm…"

The oncologist nodded. "What about muscle-relaxants? They might help with the leg; he's been cramping a lot lately…"

The pain specialist met his concerned gaze. "Most of them should be okay…"

Now Cuddy chimed in as well. "We could also give him antiemetics for the nausea, at least if they're anti-histamines; diphenhydramine perhaps…"

Shaminsky gave another nod. "And benzodiazepines, should the need arise... – But other than that we should tread cautiously for now, until the serotonin syndrome is fully reversed."

Cuddy started to rub her forehead uneasily. "This won't be a pleasant time for him… - I wish I hadn't given him the damn naloxone! Then he'd have some residual opiates in his system at least, and enough endorphins to support him somewhat through the worst of it…"

The pain specialist smiled reassuringly at her. "On the other hand, the serotonin syndrome might still be worse, assuming the vicodin really contributed to it…"

Wilson looked from one to the other. "Well, I guess the important thing is him getting better now. There's no use discussing what we should have or could have done differently. – We should concentrate on doing what's best for him _now_, and hope he'll get through this without too much permanent damage…" He was talking like someone who was - out of painful experience - expecting the worst. Then, a small smile softening his features: "I think I'll better go down there now and wait for him to wake up. – Can't let him have to deal with Huey, Dewey and Louie all _alone_ when he decides to finally join us again…"

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The oncologist looked down at the much too still body of his best friend, cursing himself for the umpteenth time for not having been able to prevent this. If he'd just been a little more insistent in his questioning! Or if he'd given the other man a greater sense of security, of confidence in his motivation and ability to support him through whatever problematic situation he found himself in… If House had felt secure enough in their friendship, he might have been able to open up to him, and all of this could have been prevented.

But as it was, the diagnostician was quite obviously _terrified_ of the prospect of having to go through any more periods of uncontrollable pain; of once more being deprived of the very few means he had to adequately deal with it. The fact that he had completely ignored what was medically an _imperative decision_ – namely to immediately get off the SSRI as soon as the first symptoms of a serotonin syndrome had emerged – spoke volumes about the panic he must have felt at the prospect of once more being forced to give up part of his pain management regimen. Of doing _anything_ that might make the pain worse again. Of maybe opening an opportunity for people around him to once more cut him off of what he perceived as his only valuable assistance in his ordeal… He'd never have risked bringing himself into a potentially life-threatening situation, unless the alternative was, subjectively, even more threatening to him.

And he _had_ risked it. He _must_ have at least _suspected_ that the symptoms he had been developing over the past couple of weeks were related to an excess of serotonin, or he wouldn't have tried to reduce the dosage of the SSRI. And the fact that he had then _upped_ the dosage again, because of the resulting increase in pain and _despite_ the more and more prominent symptoms of a serotonin 'overdose', spoke of that kind of irrationality that – with House – could only be related to the feelings of helplessness, desperation, and panic only his leg injury could evoke in him.

Fear of pain. That was what it all boiled down to. A fear that had been present – on some level – ever since the infarction. A fear that had been exponentiated by all those months of enforced narcotic abstinence that had left him suffering from pain levels he probably hadn't experienced since the early days of his invalidity. And the fact that he had felt unable to at least _discuss _the current problem with either his best friend or his treating physician who was _specialized_ on these issues, plastically reflected the emotional scars those months had left; the periods of intolerable _pain_ he had been forced to endure had left…

Wilson's gaze reflexively went to the cardiac monitor, once more reassuring himself that at least his friend's vitals were stable for now. He was still on a ventilator to secure his breathing, but his heart-rate and blood pressure had pretty much stabilized by now, and his temperature had gone down some more. As if to make sure this was really still the case, Wilson lifted one hand to gently touch the other man's forehead, keeping the brief contact a moment longer than would have been strictly necessary to just check the warmth of the skin. To feel his friend, physically, was good right now. It assured him that House was still there and had probably made it through the worst of it. He was clearly improving, but the oncologist would not be able to relax completely, before his friend had opened his eyes again and was once more with them.

Cameron, Foreman, and Chase were quietly watching the oncologist and their unconscious boss from outside the ICU room. It was Cameron who finally broke the silence, asking no-one in particular: "Do you think he'll be alright…?"

Chase turned his head towards her, not replying anything immediately.

Foreman threw her a half-amused, half-empathic glance, but his tone was reassuring: "He'll be fine." He sounded very sure. "The coma's just his brain's way of saying: 'I've had enough of this: Cut out the serotonin or go on without me'. – And the seizure was his brain's way of saying: 'Hey – didn't you hear what I just told you?!' – A seizure doesn't necessarily mean neuronal damage. You know that. – He'll be fine."

The attention of the three young doctors was instantly drawn to the room beyond the glass door again, when House's cardiac monitor suddenly signaled an abrupt increase in his heart-rate…


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hey folks... I had a lot of trouble writing this chapter, and I'm still not really happy with it; but I posted it anyway now to get on with the story line... Hope you don't mind too much... :) And thanks again for your feedback regarding the last chapter(s)! It's very much appreciated...  
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Wilson had been monitoring House's slowly but steadily rising heart rate for the past couple of minutes, but now it suddenly showed another abrupt increase, well into tachycardic regions. Which could only mean two things: Either he was in real trouble, or…

Any further rational thought escaped the oncologist, when his friend suddenly tensed, making an odd choking noise around the ventilator tube, before gripping the sheet underneath his hands hard, all the while keeping his eyes tightly shut. His posture instantly told Wilson that – just like Shaminsky had predicted – the diagnostician was in severe pain.

Coming out of his momentary shock, Wilson quickly grasped his friend's left forearm and gave it a firm but gentle squeeze, trying to help the man to orient himself. "It's okay, House. Try to relax..." He kept his voice calm and reassuring, while at the same time speaking loudly enough to hopefully get his friend's attention.

Letting go of the older man's arm again, the oncologist quickly started to prepare a syringe.

"You're in the hospital, Greg, but you're okay; you'll be fine, just… - Don't fight the tube, House! You're on a ventilator right now, but I'll take you off in just a minute. It's okay…"

House's face was contorted into a grimace of pain by now, but he had not yet opened his eyes. He also seemed to understand the oncologist, at least partly, since he made a visible effort to relax, hesitantly forcing some of the tension to leave his body.

"I'll inject you with 75 mg of diclofenac and a slight muscle-relaxant now; for the pain… Just hang in there." Wilson quickly moved his friend's gown up on one side, just enough to gain appropriate access to the other man's hip region, and expertly set the injection.

The diagnostician finally opened his eyes at that, his gaze clearly showing his confusion. But as soon as he had made out the oncologist and managed to focus on him, he seemed to relax some more, blinking tiredly a couple of times before weakly lifting one hand to touch the end of the tube that was still supporting his breathing.

Wilson smiled slightly at him, the immense relief he currently felt clearly visible on his face. "You ready for me to take that out?"

The older man slowly blinked once in response, which was confirmation enough for the oncologist. He nodded – eyes still smiling – before raising the head of his patient's bed slightly and removing the stethoscope from around his neck to briefly auscultate House's chest. He nodded again, obviously satisfied with what he heard.

"Okay then… You know the drill. Try to give me a cough; I'll pull it out now…"

House obediently did as instructed, while Wilson quickly pulled the tube out of his friend's throat. The diagnostician coughed a couple of times more, before his breathing slowly started to settle down.

After listening to his friend's chest again and giving another satisfied nod, Wilson wordlessly handed the older man a cup of water and helped him to drink a few small sips. When he was done, House closed his eyes again, obviously exhausted.

Frowning slightly at that, the oncologist reflexively checked his friend's sat rate, before glancing at the cardiac monitor to make sure he wasn't deteriorating again. When House didn't open his eyes again, he leaned forward to check the other man's pupils with his penlight. Clearly annoyed by this, the diagnostician weakly jerked his head away from Wilson's hands, before trying very hard to glare at his friend, the action somewhat missing its effect, when a sudden bout of dizziness made it hard for him to really focus on the oncologist.

Wilson noticed with some concern that his friend suddenly started to sweat.

Concentrating on not sounding too worried, he gently asked in a neutral tone: "Do you know what happened?" Slowly straightening up again, he eyed the other man intently.

House met his gaze frowning slightly, then visibly tensed up again, one hand going to his thigh. He closed his eyes. "Serotonin…?" The word sounded pressed, voice carefully controlled and still raspy from the intubation.

The oncologist nodded. "Yeah. When Chase found you, you were in a coma. – We had to stop all the medication for now; that's why you're in pain …" No response. "I'm afraid the diclofenac is the best I can do for you right now…" He almost sounded pained himself.

The older man gave a very small nod, but didn't open his eyes. "The fact that you _can_ give me diclofenac tells me my kidneys made it through this alright?"

Of course; as a nephrologist renal failure had to be among the first things on his mind, when it came to serotonin syndrome…

Wilson nodded, reflexively glancing at the urinary bag hanging at the side of his friend's bed. "Yeah. Your output's good; urin's clean; and blood creatinine and BUN are both low."

Another minute nod. Then House suddenly tensed some more holding his breath, before finally grinding out: "I think I'm going to be sick…"

Quickly helping him to turn onto his left side, Wilson handed him an emesis basin, just in time. House retched a couple of times finally producing a small amount of bile, before he was caught up in painful dry heaves for a couple of minutes.

The oncologist stayed close to him, while wordlessly starting to prepare another syringe.

"I'll give you some diphenhydramine, okay? That should help with the nausea… Hang in there; you'll be feeling better in a minute…" Without waiting for a reply, Wilson inserted the antiemetic through House's IV cannula.

After a few minutes, the diagnostician slowly started to calm down, though he was still holding himself tensely. He made no move to turn onto his back again.

After a long moment of silence, Wilson started to get slightly anxious. "House…? – You okay?", he inquired gently.

The older man didn't meet his gaze. "Don't feel so hot..." He was starting to sweat more profusely now, one hand on his bad thigh, the other holding his abdomen.

The oncologist nodded, sitting down on a visitor's chair in House's line of sight. "We had to stop the SSRI abruptly, which is causing a discontinuation syndrome right now. And…" He took a deep breath. "We… gave you some naloxone, to be on the safe side…"

That garnered a reaction. House abruptly met his gaze, staring at him incredulously, a very surprised expression on his face. Then he gave a pained half-laugh. "What… You thought I had overdosed on narcotics?!"

Wilson evaded his intense gaze, awkwardly glancing at the upper part of the wall. "We… just… didn't want to take any chances!" He shrugged, but clearly sounded defensive.

The older man wearily closed his eyes again, voice sarcastic. "Brilliant. Now I not only have to deal with crappy medication for God knows how long, but you also knocked out every little piece of endorphin I had in my system…" After a brief moment of silence, he sardonically continued: "I'm surprised you didn't also _kill_ me with some NAC while you were at it… Guess I should be happy you're all such crappy doctors after all…"

The oncologist grimaced at that. "Actually…"

House instantly opened his eyes again, raising both eyebrows.

"…we didn't kill you, obviously; but we made you seize. – Foreman will give you a quick neuro check now; if you feel up to it …" Wilson glanced towards the door for the first time at that, smiling minutely at the three younger medics, who had entered the room some time ago but were still hovering around the entrance, apparently unsure whether or not they were wanted here right now. "_If _he ever decides to come in that is…"

The diagnostician rolled his eyes at that, apparently not at all surprised that his staff was there, even though he couldn't see them from his current position on his left side. "My brain's fine." Was all he said regarding the impending examination by the neurologist.

Foreman rolled his eyes as well, completely entering the room now. "Apparently…" He muttered while approaching his boss's bed. "Well, it's _good_ to have you back…" He didn't even try to conceal the undertone of sarcasm.

Cameron and Chase remained by the door, somehow sensing that this wouldn't go too well.

"Can you turn onto your back for me…?" Foreman concentrated on keeping his tone professional now, intent on treating his boss like he would any other patient.

Which was clearly not what _House _had in mind, when he replied tonelessly without meeting his employee's gaze. "No."

The neurologist rolled his eyes impatiently at that, before throwing Wilson a slightly questioning glance.

The oncologist held his gaze for a moment, then eyed his best friend again, tone placating. "House… We need to make sure – "

The older man immediately interrupted him. "Cut the crap, Wilson. – My brain's _fine_! Get out of here now – all of you…! I need to get some rest…"

He had started to shiver slightly be now, hugging himself around the abdomen more tightly.

Contemplating his options for a few moments, Wilson finally nodded at Foreman, before throwing the other two young doctors a meaningful glance. The three of them wordlessly left the room again after a brief moment of hesitation. Cameron turned around once more in the doorway, throwing her boss a last compassionate glance. She opened her mouth, apparently planning to say something, but then just closed it again, smiling minutely. The door quietly closed behind her.

As soon as they had all left, Wilson took in his friend's posture again. He was clearly in considerable discomfort, sweating profusely by now and looking as if he might be sick again any minute. He didn't open his eyes, but finally spoke in a strained voice: "I said _all_ of you…"

Wilson just smiled sadly in response, predictably not moving. "I'm not leaving, House."

The diagnostician made a half-choked sound at that, which seemed to be wavering somewhere between laughing and crying. Then, in a tone Wilson couldn't really interpret: "Seems like you never are…"

When House started to curl into himself even more tightly over the next couple of minutes, the younger man gently addressed him again. "Wanna try a heat-pad for the abdomen?"

A minute shake of his friend's head was his only response.

After a few minutes of tense silence, the diagnostician tiredly spoke again: "How long…?"

Wilson went with one hand through his hair, exhaling audibly. "About 24 hours; at least since Chase found you. - I think you nearly gave him a heart-attack…"

House nodded, his lips quirking up slightly at the image, but still keeping his eyes closed. "How did you figure it out…?"

This time, the oncologist smiled slightly. "Shaminsky suggested it. – He told us about your attempt to reduce the dosage of the paroxetine a couple of weeks ago... – Glad to hear there was a grain of truth in your story by the way..." He tried to lighten his tone as much as possible, intent on distracting his friend from his discomfort.

The older man only snorted in response, eyes still tightly shut, holding himself very still.

Then, stifling a low moan: "What the hell did you do to my leg?"

Wilson instantly frowned in surprised concern, his voice betraying his alarm: "What… - Nothing! What do you mean?!"

The reply was more mumbled than spoken. "Feels like a cement pillar right now…"

The younger man's anxiety was about to turn into a bout of full-fledged fear, when he tried to come up with a reason why House was voluntarily bringing this up…

"Do you mean… - Does it feel _heavy_?!"

The diagnostician opened his eyes again now, glancing at his friend impatiently. "That was what the metaphor was supposed to imply, yeah…"

Wilson looked half-panicked. "Do you think… - Does it feel _numb_ in any way?!"

House rolled his eyes at that. "I would have said that then, wouldn't I... – It just feels heavy; and stiff." Then, mumbled again: "And hurts like a bitch…"

The oncologist pushed himself out of his chair. "Turn onto your back."

His friend glanced up at him unhappily. "No."

This time Wilson rolled his eyes. "House; come on! You can't bring up something like that, and then expect me to just let it go. – Turn around; just for a minute…"

Gritting his teeth and averting his friend's gaze, House moved a trembling hand to the back of his right leg, supporting it manually while slowly rolling onto his back. He couldn't help but hiss in pain when the majority of his muscles protested the movement. He could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat.

When a brief clenching of his thigh muscles immediately made him feel ready to throw up again, he didn't bother suppressing a low moan.

He needed to get himself to relax somehow, or he knew the pain would soon be spiraling out of control. Panicking would only make it worse.

Taking a deep breath, House made a conscious effort to block out his discomfort as best as he could and focus on the fact that this was only a temporary situation. He would be on adequate pain medication again in no time; as soon as his organism would be able to tolerate it again.

This was his own damned fault! He had allowed everything to get out of hand like this…

This time, nobody _wanted_ him to suffer; they just couldn't give him anything stronger if they didn't want to seriously endanger his health. He knew that.

It was only temporary; and he was not alone… He just had to suck it up for a while; he had managed to do so for much longer in the past than he would have to _this_ time… In a couple of days, they would try out a new combination of meds, and he would most probably be on some sort of narcotic again.

Deep breath.

Nobody wanted to harm him.

Nobody wanted to force him to do anything against his will. ---

Unless of course, they decided that now was a good time to test another non-narcotic pain management strategy. Now that he was 'artificially' detoxed through the naloxone anyway.

A sudden bout of panic made his breathing involuntarily speed up.

Maybe they –

"House…?" Wilson's concerned voice. He had completely forgotten about the other man's presence for a minute.

"You alright?" The oncologist carefully inquired.

House forced himself to let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding, nodding wearily. "Yeah; go ahead…"

Nodding slowly, Wilson moved the blanket back to reveal his friend's right leg. Then he carefully pushed the other man's hospital gown up far enough to uncover the damaged thigh. He couldn't help but inhale sharply at the sight of the severely bruised and swollen leg.

"Okay… - There's a lot of swelling, House. That's probably why it feels so heavy." Without waiting for a response, he used one hand to gently feel the temperature of his friend's lower leg, then went to the end of the bed, lightly resting both hands on his friend's foot.

He waited a moment to give House the chance to get used to his touch, then gently started to feel for the pulses at the inner side of his friend's ankle and on the instep of his foot. He exhaled audibly in relief. "Pulses are good, House. Circulation's intact…"

The older man had closed his eyes again by now, clenching his jaw. "Hadn't thought it wasn't…" His voice was strained again.

Wilson rolled his eyes at that. Of course he hadn't…

Coming to stand at the side of his friend's bed again, the oncologist very gently started to probe the older man's knee that was markedly swollen as well by now, causing House to flinch and then stiffen up some more. He didn't touch the thigh, even though that was where most of the swelling was located.

"House…" Wilson waited for his friend to reluctantly meet his gaze. "You need an MRI." His tone didn't leave much room for protest. "I'll arrange it for tomorrow, when we can give you some diazepam for the trembling and to help you relax…" The diagnostician was in no shape to be put through an MRI scanning procedure right now; but it was also not the time to slow down his central nervous system by administering a benzodiazepine. He had just woken up from an about 36-hour coma after all…

When the older man didn't reply anything, Wilson gently touched his shoulder. "Wanna stay on your back for a bit?"

Just a minute nod.

"Okay…" The oncologist grabbed a couple of extra pillows from one of the room's closets. "Let's elevate the leg a bit then…"

House wordlessly allowed him to push one pillow under his lower thigh, one under his knee, and another one under his lower leg.

"I'll send a nurse in with a couple of cool pads."

No response.

Wilson quietly sighed, wondering whether his friend's apparent lethargy was due to exhaustion, frustration, pain, or side-effects from the opiate withdrawal or the SSRI discontinuation syndrome… The tight set of House's facial muscles told him pain was at least part of it.

"I'll be back soon. Try to get some rest… - We can give you some more diclofenac in a couple of hours…"

Surprisingly, the diagnostician forced himself to open his eyes and briefly meet his friend's gaze before he was about to leave the room. "'Kay. Thanks…"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Here's the next chapter; less medicine, more dialog... :) And especially for the wonderful Dr. Fantabulous: extra-many names and pronouns!! ;) Thanks to everyone who reviewed and... have fun!  
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Wilson scheduled the MRI for early the next morning, asking one of the orthopedists House surprisingly _hadn't _pissed off yet to join them for the procedure. When he was done, he went directly to Cuddy's office.

She greeted him with a small smile. "So… He's all back…"

Wilson nodded, allowing his relief to show on his face. "Yeah. He is..."

Cuddy gestured for him to sit down on one of the chairs opposite her desk. "And… How's he doing?"

Wilson replied with a shrug. "Not so good… As expected basically... – He's in acute withdrawal from the narcotics and the SSRI, he's in a lot of pain, and he seems… very tense; uneasy. – But I guess that's not really surprising."

Cuddy slowly nodded, eyeing him intently. "What did you give him…?"

Wilson calmly returned her gaze. "Diclophenac, diphenhydramine, and a mild muscle relaxant. Nothing we didn't discuss with Dr Shaminsky…" He paused briefly, then continued somewhat uneasily: "But… I'm not sure we will be able to avoid the narcotics for as long as we had hoped. – It might come to the point where I think administering single doses of Demerol might be preferable to letting him suffer."

To Cuddy's questioning glance, he went on explaining: "He's… already in a lot of pain. And I think it'll only get worse now that he has to deal with all the other symptoms… He also suffered an acute injury to his right thigh a few days ago, which is adding to the problem. And he seems… anxious; I think about the pain. – We shouldn't let this get out of hand. If he doesn't think he can stand it anymore, I'd prefer to give him something stronger, even if it involves a minimal risk."

Cuddy raised both eyebrows at that, apparently very surprised by his statement. "You'd rather risk him slipping back into a _coma_, then letting him be in some _discomfort _for a few days?!"

Wilson's expression hardened. "It was not the _narcotic _that caused the serotonin syndrome; you know that. – He's been on significantly higher doses of vicodin for the last _decade _than he has been lately, and he never had complications like these before. The risk of giving him Demerol or another fast-acting opiate is _minimal_. He's not going to slip back into a coma." He nodded then. "And to answer your question: Yes; I'd rather take the minimal risk of setting back his recovery, than letting him suffer through another traumatic _pain _experience! He's… had enough of those! – He needs to know that we're on his side. I don't want him to go back to seeing himself as his pain's only ally, and everyone else as 'the enemy'. I don't wanna risk shattering all the trust we… painfully managed to build up over the last six months...!"

Cuddy was still looking at him, her expression now unreadable. She finally spoke again. "Why do you think he did this anyway…? – Why did he continue taking the paroxetine, when he already knew it was doing him more harm than good...?"

Wilson briefly closed his eyes. "Because…" He took his time to formulate the answer. "…he is afraid." He had trouble holding her gaze, like he had every time he revealed something personal about his best friend to another person. He shrugged slightly. "Because he still doesn't trust us to fight this _with _him; to not… force him into a corner and simply do what we think is best; to not… _hurt _him."

Cuddy didn't reply anything for a long moment, but finally shook her head. "This is ridiculous… - He takes pills until he goes into a coma, rather than discussing the problem with you; or his attending physician…?" Her gaze turned determined. "You know what I think? I think he might have done it in suicidal intention."

When Wilson was actually speechless for a moment, she continued somewhat defensively. "At least we cannot _exclude _this possibility! Hell, he's the best doctor in this _clinic_…! If he ignores a serotonin syndrome like that, he has either lost his mind, or he doesn't want to live."

The oncologist paled slightly at her words. "Or… he doesn't trust his 'doctors' enough to reveal the problem to them, and instead tries to manage it on his own."

Cuddy seemed to consider this for a moment, but then shook her head again. "I think we should get him a psych referral." There; it was out.

Wilson raised both eyebrows at that, staring at her incredulously. "What?! – You can't be serious. That would totally freak him out!" He was shaking his head almost continuously now. "And I don't think that's _necessary_. Or _useful _in any way… - Don't do this; unless you intend to drive him completely into defensive mode and lose any chance of working on those trust issues..."

Cuddy pushed herself up from her chair now, using both arms to lean onto her desk. "You _heard _what Dr Shaminsky said! – Even if he wasn't actively suicidal before, he might get so due to the SSRI withdrawal!"

Wilson was still shaking his head slightly. "Cuddy. You don't want to do this…! – We'll lose him, if we start anything like that now… - He's been surprisingly _open _those last couple of months – well except for the serotonin thing now – but that will end as soon as we start deciding things over his _head _again...!"

Cuddy eyed him pensively for a moment. Then, grimacing slightly: "Don't you see that I'm actually _afraid _for him…?! – I don't want to _harm _him! I just don't wanna risk _losing _him!"

Wilson was watching her intensely, a pained half-laugh escaping his lips. "Don't you think I feel the same way…?!" – He's my best friend! Has been for practically as long as I can remember! He's the one relationship that survived all my… screwed-up marriages. This coma scared the crap out of me! – But it also scares the crap out of me when I see him distancing himself from us. _All _of us. When he… draws into himself, simply because he thinks he has no one he can _trust_! – Don't you know I'd never risk his health unnecessarily?! He's like a _brother _to me, Cuddy! I'd rather harm _myself _than _him_...!"

She didn't reply anything for a long moment, his last words awkwardly hanging in the air. Then she lowered her head slightly, seemingly studying the surface of her desk. "He almost lost his life _once _because of me. Because I didn't make the right decisions. Because I didn't have adequate control of the situation."

Wilson assumed she was somehow referring to the time of the infarction, but he was still very surprised by her guilt-ridden words.

She then turned towards him again, her gaze once again determined. "I'm not willing to risk his life again. Not as long as I have any say in the matter."

Wilson regarded her for a long moment, before briefly shaking his head. His voice was suddenly calm again: "You need to get over this. – The infarction, and everything that has gone… wrong about it, has left its traces for _all _of us! I know that… And I understand that he certainly hasn't made it _easy _for. – I mean, he doesn't exactly _hesitate_, when it comes to playing the guilt-card, but… You need to stop over-compensating like this. -What's done is done! We can't do anything about what happened now… But we _can _try not to make it even _worse_...!"

Cuddy suddenly looked almost angry. "Over-compensating?! If I interpret self-harming behavior as self-harming behavior, and initiate measures to try and protect him from himself, you call that 'over-compensating'?! That is my _duty _as his _boss_! And as a _friend_… And as one of the doctors who are responsible for this whole – ", she made an undefined gesture, " – tragedy…!"

Wilson eyed her almost imploringly at that point. "He didn't try to kill himself." A pained half-smile; then matter-of-factly: "If House wanted to kill himself, he'd do it. Without giving any of us the chance to _find _him! And he certainly wouldn't do it by means of a serotonin syndrome…!" He searched her eyes, patiently repeating himself: "He didn't try to kill himself. – And I don't think he has any intention of doing so _now_!"

Cuddy met his gaze, her expression once again guarded; controlled. "You _think_. – But you don't _know_." She shrugged, shaking her head. "And you _can't _know! Because that is not your _specialty_!"

Wilson closed his eyes briefly again, once more shaking his head. "This is a mistake, Cuddy." He fought to keep his voice calm. "I really ask you to think about this some more, before you decide to do anything..."

She just nodded, sitting down again, eyeing him seriously. "I will. – And you do the same."


	11. Chapter 11

When Wilson returned to his friend's room, House was dry-heaving again. He was currently in an awkward half-upright position on his left side, holding an emesis basin in one severely trembling hand.

A young nurse, who was standing somewhere close to the side of his bed, shrugged apologetically as soon as she saw Wilson entering the room. "He didn't want me to page anybody…"

The oncologist just nodded, throwing her a small, reassuring smile, while quickly approaching his friend's bed.

"House…? – How long has this been going on…"

Getting no immediate response, he threw the nurse a questioning glance. She shrugged again. "Maybe half an hour?"

Suppressing a wave of involuntary concern, Wilson forced himself to focus on their options. "Okay. I don't think we should give you any more diphenhydramine right now, House; but we could try out some cyclizine, okay?"

Just a weak nod.

A couple of minutes after he had injected the anti-emetic, House slowly started to calm down. Looking up from his friend's chart, Wilson turned towards the nurse again, who was just about to leave the room. "I want to check his electrolytes again, before we hang another bag of fluids." She just nodded and left to get the necessary equipment.

Wilson sat down in the visitor's chair next to House's bed, trying to gauge his friend's condition without being too obvious about it. He was lying on his left side again, still sweating and slightly breathless, still hugging himself tightly around the abdomen. All in all, he looked completely miserable.

"How are you holding up…?", Wilson gently enquired.

House just threw him an irritated glance. "Well, how do I _look_...?!"

"Let's see…" The oncologist shrugged slightly. "Like you had a particularly rough night at Joey's Bar yesterday. – Otherwise… Not so bad."

That got the intended reaction: House eyed him incredulously for a moment, then gave a weak half-laugh, causing Wilson to smile slightly in response.

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence. When Wilson was just about to carefully inform his friend about the talk he'd had with Cuddy earlier and about her concern regarding his… condition, he noticed that House seemed be having trouble keeping his eyes open. He knew it would be better to fill him in on everything as soon as possible, to prepare him somewhat for whatever Cuddy might come up with, but now was clearly not the time. House needed his rest more than anything else right now…

In a fleeting motion, he very briefly touched his friend's forearm. "Why don't you try and get some rest …"

The older man met his gaze, his expression conveying the exhaustion he felt, but otherwise relatively relaxed for the first time since he had woken up from the coma. "Why don't _you_ try and get some of your _paperwork_ done…?"

To Wilson's skeptical look, he added gruffly: "Knowing you, you've been pathetically sitting by my bedside ever since I was brought in…"

The oncologist raised an eyebrow at that, answering with a sarcastic snort. "Yeah, sure. – Didn't have anything else to do with my time…" In truth, House's assessment was – as so often – frighteningly accurate; but why give him the satisfaction of confirming it …

Apparently sensing his friend's hesitation to leave him alone, House switched to a more sincere tone, giving Wilson something resembling a reassuring nod: "I'm fine. Nothing you can do right now anyway. I'll…", he weakly gestured towards the door, "…page you when I need you."

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And so, Wilson had spent the next couple of hours seeing a few of his patients and catching up on some of the paperwork that was indeed already piling up on his desk.

When he was just about to check up on his friend again - to then decide where he would be spending the night - his pager went off. Shit… It was from the ICU.

Wilson didn't think he had ever crossed the distance between his own office and the intensive care unit more quickly.

The first thing that hit him, when he entered House's room, was the smell of sweat.

The oncologist instantly froze in his tracks, as soon as his gaze fell on his friend, who was currently writhing on the bed in obvious agony. A nurse was standing close to his head, talking to him reassuringly, but House seemed basically unresponsive, completely caught up in the pain that was clearly dominating his whole perception right now.

For a moment, Wilson felt literally unable to move, when he was suddenly assaulted by unwanted images of House during the time of the infarction: Sweating with the effort to suppress his screams of pain; pleading with them to up the dosage of his morphine, even though they just couldn't _do _that without endangering his life; arching his back, writhing on his hospital bed and trembling in pain for _hours _at a time; allowing tears to fall only when he was alone and thought no one was there to see them; begging for some kind of relief – or death.

"Dr Wilson…?" He snapped out of it only when the nurse eyed him a look of confusion and mild concern on her face.

He just nodded, quickly approaching his friend's bed now.

"House…!" Lightly placing one hand on the other man's shoulder, he tried to get his attention through the haze of pain. "What's happening… - Talk to me…!"

All House managed in response to the question was a choked sound that briefly interrupted his ragged breathing; then he just jerkily shook his head.

"He had spasms in the right leg earlier and asked for pain medication." The nurse hastily informed him. "We paged Dr Cuddy, who gave him…", she handed Wilson House's chart, "…diclofenac IM and a muscle relaxant. – The spasms stopped then, but the pain kept getting worse… Dr Cuddy isn't in her office anymore. So, I thought I'd just page you instead…"

Wilson responded with a brief nod, then turned towards his friend again. He noticed with some concern that House was breathing shallowly by now, which already reflected in his O2 sat rate. He was clearly in considerable distress.

"House?! Come on; I need you tell me what I can do to help. – Try to calm down a bit; it's gonna be okay… Just concentrate on breathing – it's okay…"

He focused on keeping his tone calm, soothing, but House suddenly had his forearm in a deathgrip. "I can't…" He was still panting heavily. "It's really bad…" He arched his back again, when another intense flash of pain seemed to rip through his bad leg.

Wilson swallowed reflexively, trying not to let on how much his friend's uncharacteristically open admission was affecting him. "I know, House; it's okay…" He needed to get him to calm down a bit, or this would only be getting worse… Squeezing the other man's shoulder reassuringly once more, Wilson took a step towards the foot of the bed and pushed the blanket back to uncover House's leg.

"How much of this is nerve pain, House…" The nerve pain component would be particularly difficult to deal with right now, given the restrictions they were currently facing regarding House's drug options. But he suspected that this _acute _bout of pain was largely due to the recent injury to the very sensitive thigh muscle, and not so much the kind of chronic pain his friend had to endure on a daily basis. Right now, Wilson cursed himself for not having scheduled the MRI for today after all; then they would at least _know _by now what exactly they were dealing with here…

House simply shrugged his shoulders half-heartedly in response to Wilson's question, clearly not in the right frame of mind to rationally analyze his pain right now.

The oncologist carefully touched his friend's knee. "Okay… Let's take some strain off the thigh muscles first… - I'll help you elevate the leg on those cushions again, alright?"

No response.

Wilson worriedly regarded his friend's labored breathing efforts. "House…" He addressed him slowly and more loudly now. "Deep breaths… Come on, buddy; you can do this. Slow breaths, Greg… Ty to relax…"

As soon as he carefully moved his friend's leg slightly to reposition it, House gave a small cry of pain. Quickly removing his hands again, Wilson stood back slightly, momentarily unsure how to proceed. This wasn't just the pain – this was _panic _as well. He remembered his own words during his conversation with Cuddy...

"Listen, House. I would rather not give you any narcotics for another 12 hours or so…" He stressed his next words: "But if we can't get you more comfortable without them, I _will_ do it. It'll be okay; I promise… - But let's try a couple of other options first, okay?"

House completely met his gaze for the first time since he had entered the room at that, his expression guarded.

Wilson instantly discerned the careful look on his face for what it was: Doubt.

He gave the older man's hand a gentle squeeze. "We'll see how you're doing in half an hour, and if you say it's still too bad then, I _will _inject you with a narcotic. Trust me… You'll be fine. – Just try to work with me here and relax a bit…"

Then he turned towards the nurse again. "I need a couple of ice packs please, and two syringes: 50 mg Demerol, and 75 mg Diclofenac. Also see if you can find a topical analgesic for us; maybe some Mobisyl cream…"

While they were waiting for the supplies he had just ordered, Wilson calmly checked his friend's vitals again. Pulse and BP were still through the roof, O2 sat rate was still crappy, even though House made a visible effort to relax himself.

The oncologist wordlessly started to prepare the nasal oxygen cannula that was part of the standard equipment for every bed in the ICU. "We need to get you on this for a while…"

At first, House seemed about to protest, but then he turned his head slightly to study his own vitals for a minute, before just weakly reaching out for the cannula and applying it himself.

Wilson smiled slightly at that. The other man seemed to slowly center himself again... - They could do this.

20 minutes later, House's leg was iced and elevated, the most badly bruised parts of his thigh covered by an analgesic cream. Wilson had given him another shot of diclofenac, but nothing stronger yet.

The oncologist calmly regarded his friend, whose breathing had more or less evened out by now. His heart rate was still somewhat elevated, but nothing like before...

"You doing a bit better now…?" Wilson needed to hear his friend confirm that he was feeling better. He had _meant _what he had said, when he had promised House stronger medication if he really needed it. And he wouldn't violate the other man's trust: If he didn't think he could tolerate the pain level as it was now, Wilson would use the prepared syringe of Demerol after all. It was paramount to not let House feel alone in this, helpless with the pain again…

The diagnostician turned his head slightly to meet his friend's warm gaze, finally answering with a small nod. "_Much_ better…"

Wilson slowly nodded as well. "Give me a number for the pain right now…"

A small sigh; then: "About a 6, I guess…" To Wilson's frown, he quickly added: "Nothing like before. It's okay for now…" He continued with a pained half-smile. "Wouldn't wanna provoke another period of immoderate _unconsciousness _after all, would we… - This is all simply too much _fun_, to miss out on it…"

Wilson returned a small smile that clearly reflected his relief at hearing the familiar dry humor return to his friend's voice. "Absolutely."

He leaned back in the surprisingly uncomfortable visitor's chair, trying to somehow find a more acceptable position to spend the next 6 or so hours in...

"Wilson…?"

He opened his eyes again to meet House's intense gaze. "What…"

The older man just quietly regarded him for a few moments. Then House simply relaxed against his pillows, slowly closing his eyes. "You're back'll kill you tomorrow, if you stay there like that all night…" Voice once again gruff.

Wilson smiled slightly in response, when he reflected on all the things his friend was and wasn't saying... Then he closed his eyes again as well, his lips still slightly quirked upwards. "Yeah. It will…"


	12. Chapter 12

They had both slept until around 5 a.m., when House was abruptly woken by severe abdominal cramps. Groaning, he tried to ride it out curled into a fetal position on his left side again, but Wilson could tell that he was close to the end of his endurance. The involuntary jerky movements brought on by the cramping quickly aggravated his leg again, and soon he was once more panting heavily, his face much too pale and covered in sweat.

Wilson finally decided that this had to stop.

"House? – I think it can't hurt you now if we give you some diazepam. That should help with most of the withdrawal symptoms… You'll also be a little more relaxed for the MRI later on."

House responded with a barely discernible nod.

A few minutes after Wilson had administered the slightly sedating muscle relaxant, House started to visibly calm down. Soon after that, he had fallen asleep again. Wilson slowly released the breath he had unconsciously been holding…

During the MRI appointment, two and a half hours later, House still seemed slightly sedated. While this was certainly very _helpful_ for the _procedure_, since it made him less likely to offend the attending orthopedist or otherwise interfere with the scans, Wilson was mildly concerned about the strong effect the single dose of the benzodiazepine seemed to be having on his friend. Sure, his body was weakened right now, so every drug had to affect him more severely than it normally would, but maybe Foreman should have a look at him after all… With his friend's innate ability to hide severe conditions from everyone around him, it could never hurt to be thorough...

The orthopedist – Dr Jones – joined House and Wilson back in the ICU room with print-outs of the relevant MRI slices.

"So…" The young doctor's expression was friendly, his eyes first going to Wilson, then to his patient on the bed. "I just went over these with Dr Fowler again, and it's safe to say that you suffered severe muscle contusions to both the Vastus lateralis and the Rectus femoris, and also a small hairline-fracture in the lower part of your femur." He handed the scan over to House, who studied it briefly.

Wilson turned towards the orthopedist, eyes questioning. "So… What now?"

Dr Jones returned his gaze. "Now, I'll take a couple of measurements of the leg, so we can adjust a brace for the thigh and knee." He turned towards House again. "You'll need to minimize all strain on the leg for at least two weeks, which means we'll also get you on crutches. After that, you should be able to slowly start bearing some weight again, and we'd recommend some light PT to help you strengthen the muscles again and regain full mobility of the knee…"

House indicated a nod.

When he didn't reply anything beyond that, Wilson spoke again, choosing his words carefully: "But… You expect him to make a full recovery? – Or is there any risk of additional… permanent damage."

Dr Jones replied with a reassuring smile. "There's no reason to expect that. – With the brace, plenty of rest, and some PT, he should be fine..."

Wilson nodded and was apparently about to say something more, when his pager suddenly went off again. He frowned at the text message, before searching House's gaze. "I'm afraid I have to get this. But I'll be back… - Will you be okay for now?"

House nodded. "Sure! No worries…" He vaguely gestured towards the other man's pager. "I'm sure I'll make it longer than _he_ does anyway…"

Wilson threw him an admonishing glance. "_She_… - And I wouldn't bet on it…"

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It was three hours later, when Wilson finally had the chance to return to his friend's room. He was very surprised to find Cuddy, Foreman and another female doctor there, but no trace of House.

He immediately frowned in concern. "What's going on…?!"

Cuddy hesitantly met his gaze. Then she shrugged, the casual gesture in stark contrast to the seriousness on her face. "He left! – He's gone…"

Wilson incredulously shook his head. "What… - What do you _mean_?! He, he, he… _can't_ have left! – Why would he _leave_…?"

The female doctor he didn't know took a small step towards him. "I'm afraid, our meeting must have upset him." She sounded strangely apologetic.

Wilson still looked confused and surprised more than anything else. "Upset… - Meeting? What meeting?!"

He saw Foreman silently shaking his head.

But it was Cuddy who eventually started to explain: "I asked Dr Mayberg to assess him; psychologically…" She looked somewhat uncomfortable, but her voice was firm.

Wilson's expression instantly reflected his shock at this new information. "What?! Why did you… He was in no shape for…" He suddenly fixed his gaze on the psychiatrist. "What did you _say_ to him?!"

She shook her head. "I didn't say _much_. – I was trying to get _him_ to talk… About what has happened. About how he _feels _about what happened…" She patiently held Wilson's intense gaze. "I was trying to disburden him by giving him options where to go from here."

Wilson frowned at that. "What do you mean?"

"I told him that – as soon as he was stable enough to leave the ICU – he could immediately get a bed in our rehab facility here in the house… With psychological attendance; assistance in finding new medication…"

Wilson looked completely shocked now, rudely interrupting her: "What… - How the hell was that supposed to _disburden_ him?!" He briefly glanced at Foreman before fixing his gaze on Cuddy. "Doesn't any of you know him _at all_?!"

Simply ignoring the more or less rhetorical question, Dr Mayberg calmly replied: "I just wanted to help. – Many patients feel relieved knowing that they can hand over responsibility to someone else for a while; that not everything is on their own shoulders anymore... When they finally have the support and help they need. – Suicidal ideations – " She didn't get any further.

"He is not suicidal!" Wilson was clearly becoming agitated. "At least he wasn't, until you talked to him… – And how did he manage to simply leave the ICU anyway?! Patients don't just walk out of here unnoticed…!"

Foreman threw him a look that was clearly saying 'Well, _House _apparently does...', but then he just calmly explained: "One of the nurses tried to hinder him from getting out of the bed, when he first attempted to. He told her he was leaving; she said he couldn't do that, his doctors hadn't cleared him." The frustration was evident in his voice. "House informed her he'd sign out AMA and told her to get him the necessary forms and a pair of crutches. She told him to wait for her to come back, and then immediately paged Dr Cuddy. – When they returned to his room, he had already left; somehow…"

Wilson shook his head vigorously. "Well, he can't have come far. – He's not even ambulatory!" Then, determinedly: "We need to find him. He's in absolutely no condition to be anywhere else than in a hospital bed. He still needs close monitoring... – We need to find him."

Foreman just nodded. "Chase is already searching the ward with the ICU staff. And Cameron has gone to House's office to check if he maybe went up there…" He shrugged. "He can't have simply left the clinic in a hospital gown after all… Not even _House_ would get away with that."

Wilson just shook his head, his voice reflecting his anxiety and a hint of frustration. "If only you knew…"

That was when Cameron breathlessly entered the room as well. She met first Wilson's gaze, then Cuddy's. "He's not in his office. – But he was." She held up House's hospital gown. "He seems to have changed his outfit."

Foreman suddenly eyed the ceiling intently, verbalizing what everyone else was thinking: "I can't believe this…"

Wilson stated pensively: "Well, he still can't have come far. His leg's in a very bad shape and he is still weak. – Even if he managed to somehow get a hold of some sort of walking help, in his office or God knows where... I don't think he made it out of the clinic."

Cuddy nodded, searching Wilson's gaze. "Yeah… Only question is: Where is he hiding?"


	13. Chapter 13

They had searched everywhere; House seemed to have vanished literally without a trace. He was not in his office, not in Wilson's office, not on the balcony, not on the roof; not in the oncology lounge (to which he had just recently received a key for), not in any of the other lounges, nor in any of the clinic's exam rooms; not with coma guy, not with one of the other coma guys, nor in any of the public bathrooms.

At least the nurses at the reception right in front of the hospital's main entrance were 99.9 percent sure that they hadn't seen House – or anyone else in very bad condition on crutches – leave the building. And even if he had somehow tried to disguise his identity, he would most certainly have attracted attention to himself in his current state; the nurses would have remembered him. So he really still seemed to be somewhere inside the clinic building.

Unless…

Wilson suddenly looked up at House's three fellows, all of whom had joined him at the conference table of their department a while ago.

"I don't think he would have tried to leave the clinic through the main entrance…" Thinking about it, that would have been pointless from the beginning; stupid almost.

Cameron frowned at that. "Then, where would he… - The ER entrance?!" She eyed him incredulously. "He surely would have been noticed there as well…"

Wilson slowly shook his head. "There's about _one_ entrance to this whole building none of us considered. Mostly because House would usually avoid the _way_ there even on _good_ days…"

A moment of pensive silence, then Foreman raised a critical eyebrow. "The stairway to the _basement_?! – No way… He wouldn't be _that_ stupid. In his current condition…"

Wilson interrupted him. "If he was in enough panic, he would." He got up determinedly. "I'll page you, if I should find him…"

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Wilson took the elevator to the first floor, then walked the short distance to the beginning of the stairway leading further down. It was very rarely used, mostly because the side entrance to which it led was the farthest away from both the parking places and the bus stop, which was why you usually had no good reason to leave the building through this exit. Except if you didn't want to be seen…

For a moment, he almost hoped House _hadn't_ made it all the way down, because if he _had_, it might become very difficult to actually find him. But on the other hand, if he had gotten in trouble in the middle of the stairs, the consequences could be very bad…

Not letting his mind go there just yet, Wilson started his way down with as much calmness as he could muster.

He didn't have to go very far.

When he had just reached the first landing and rounded the corner towards the next part of the stairway, he saw House's hunched form on one of the steps approximately half-way down the flight. He had his bad leg stretched out in front of him on the stair he was sitting on, leaning against the wall opposite the banister, a pair of crutches lying discarded somewhere further down. His tense posture immediately revealed the fact that he was definitely not unconscious, even though his eyes were closed. One of his hands was pressing down on his right knee, the other was hugging his bent left leg close to his body. He was shivering slightly.

"House." As soon as Wilson said his name to alert him of his presence, the older man looked up sharply. Surprise flickered across his face for just a second, before his expression closed off, becoming unreadable even for Wilson.

"I'm not going back, so you might as well leave." His voice was tense, speaking apparently an effort.

Wilson slowly approached his friend, sitting down a couple of stairs above him. This wasn't gonna be easy…

"House. You cannot leave the clinic. At least not _now_! – You're in no shape to – "

The older man simply interrupted him, his words laced with bitterness. "Nice trick with the pager, by the way. – Thanks for the warning…"

Wilson looked completely shocked. "I didn't trick you! I – "

But House wasn't listening. "Oh, cut the crap, Wilson! - Funny coincidence that you get mysteriously paged away, and two seconds later a shrink is there to tell me my Mommy really, _really_ loves me…" Then, as if talking to himself: "Doesn't matter anyway… I'm not going back." The shivering increased.

Wilson noticed with some concern that his friend's breathing was once again too shallow. He had never seen him this pale before.

"House." He kept his voice gentle, but firm, trying to keep his own anxiety in check. "You're simply too sick to be anywhere else than in the ICU. You _know_ that! – Please, let's just get you back up there; this is… crazy!" He helplessly gestured at the stairway in general.

House started to reply something, but then suddenly drew his breath in sharply, pressing his head more firmly against the wall behind himself.

The oncologist studied him intently, trying to identify the source of the problem. "What's wrong?"

House didn't meet his gaze. "Nothing. - I'm not coming."

"Oh, come on…!" Tone a mixture of frustrated and pleading by now. "You _know_ that you're not well enough to get out of here! Please – just once in your life – don't be so damn _stubborn_ and let me help you back to your room…"

His friend looked at him for the first time now, his expression angry. "What… So you can move me to the psych ward?! I'm not stupid, Wilson! The moment I set foot anywhere up there, I won't get out of here again any time soon…"

Wilson held up a hand reassuringly. "House… Nobody wants to – "

"She thinks I wanted to _kill_ myself, Wilson…! There's no way they're gonna just let this go… - I can't go back! I can't… let her dictate… my life again. It's – " He abruptly stopped, apparently trying to take a deeper breath. Alarmed by the way he struggled to draw in any air _at all_ for a second, Wilson quickly crossed the rest of the distance and crouched down directly in front of his friend. He kept a careful distance though, as if he had just approached a dangerous or a very shy animal. "It's okay, House… Try to calm down. That's not going to happen; we'll work something out. – She's just afraid for you…"

If the older man had heard him, he didn't show it.

"Deep breaths, House…" Wilson tentatively put a comforting hand on his friend's forearm now. "Slow breaths, Greg. It's gonna be okay… – Slow down… Yeah, that's it …"

House's breathing very gradually seemed to even out again, but he was still trembling slightly.

When he opened his eyes again after what felt like an eternity to Wilson, the traces of panic had left his eyes but he seemed completely exhausted. He slowly shifted his gaze to meet his friend's concerned one. "I think I'm too dizzy to get up." His tone was calm now.

Wilson couldn't help but smile slightly in acute relief. "That's okay. – I'll page Foreman to help…"

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He had done just that, and the neurologist arrived minutes later. To his credit, the expression on his face was purely professional when he took in the view of his boss, pale and shivering, on the stairs. Instead of a reproaching – or even worse: pitying – comment, he simply asked matter-of-factly: "How are we gonna do this."

Wilson was already fully concentrated on his friend again. "Let's try to get you standing, and then we'll go from there…" He crouched down on the stair just below the one House was still sitting on, and waited for him to put his left arm around his shoulders. Then he reached around House's waist with his right arm to have a better hold on him, and very slowly moved to get them both into a standing position.

As soon as his injured leg was moved only slightly, House couldn't suppress a low moan. He suddenly sagged against his friend.

"Foreman!" Wilson tried to keep the alarm out of his voice, but the urgency couldn't be denied. The neurologist seemed to understand and quickly approached House's right side, mirroring Wilson's position to support his boss as much as he could. Together, they were instantly carrying most of House's weight.

Surprised, Wilson turning his head slightly to see his friend's face. "House…?" He was concerned by how little the other man was supporting himself.

The reply came through gritted teeth: "Can't move the leg; and I don't think I can stand on it." Straight-forward for once; completely honest.

"You don't have to really. Just let us take your weight and take the next step with your left leg. When you push yourself up, the right leg will just follow…" Wilson could sense his hesitation. "Come on, House; you can do this. We have you…"

When House still didn't move, Foreman frowned uncertainly. "How about a stretcher?"

That did it.

"No way." The older man bravely lifted his left leg, setting it down on the next step. With the support he had, he pushed himself up until the right foot joined the left. He was already sweating from the exertion.

They repeated the process, painfully slowly making their way upwards. When they had reached the landing between the two flights, they gave House a few minutes to rest, before taking on the last part of the ascent.

As if to distract them all, Foreman suddenly asked no one in particular. "What's with the leg…?" He sounded almost curious.

Knowing that House didn't have any breath to spare right now, Wilson calmly replied: "Muscle bruises; hairline fracture; no pain medication for more than six hours…"

The neurologist frowned at that. "Sounds bad. – From the fall a couple of days ago?"

Wilson nodded. "Yes regarding the _first_ two parts."

He thought he heard House snort at that, in something sounding like pained amusement.

Halfway up the stairs, House needed another rest. He was trembling all over by now, clearly even more unsteady than he had been a couple of minutes ago.

Foreman suddenly shook his head in bewilderment. "I can't believe you actually made it this far with just the crutches…"

Wilson threw him an admonishing glance, but his boss just exhaled tensely in something resembling a tired laugh. "Believe me: Neither can I."

When they had finally managed the last of the steps, House had clearly reached the end of his strength. He sagged against Foreman completely, suddenly seeming barely conscious.

Wilson nodded towards the wheelchair Foreman had thoughtfully placed on the stairhead earlier, and together they carefully lowered House into it.

The oncologist crouched down in front of him. "House?" He lifted one hand to gently touch the side of his friend's face. "Hey House… You still with us?"

The older man weakly lifted his head, opening his eyes just enough to meet Wilson's warm gaze. He gave a small nod, before letting his eyes fall shut again, both hands now going to his right knee.

"I'm gonna move your leg onto the footrest, okay?" Without waiting for a reply, Wilson moved the footrest up as far as it would go, before carefully lifting the leg onto it. The action caused House to grip the armrests of the chair hard, unable to suppress a tense sound of pain.

Wilson gave him a moment to recollect himself, before lightly resting a hand on his forearm again. "Okay…?", he finally asked very softly. Without looking up, House confirmed with a minute nod, even though he was still breathing heavily.

Meeting Foreman's reluctantly-concerned gaze, Wilson nodded towards the elevators. "Let's get him back up there..."


	14. Chapter 14

When the three of them entered House's room again, Cuddy was already there.

"House…" Her tone was not so much angry as worried; somewhat helpless even. But she clearly expected him to talk to her.

Wilson searched her gaze, trying to convey through his eyes what he didn't want to have to say out loud right now. 'Give him a break…'

She seemed to understand, indicating a nod, uncertain eyes still resting on the man in the wheelchair.

Then, quietly: "Get some rest…" She left the room without waiting for a reply.

Foreman, who had entered the room with them, stood somewhere between the door and the other two men somewhat indecisively, until Wilson took pity on him, meeting his questioning gaze. "Thanks. I've got it from here…"

The neurologist just nodded, apparently relieved at having been dismissed. He turned towards his boss, who was still sitting motionless in the chair his eyes closed. "We'll see you later…" With that he left as well.

As soon as the door closed behind him, House dropped his stoic façade, tilting his head back and openly grimacing in pain. He seemed more alert now that he had recovered a while from their arduous climb up the stairs, but his complexion was still frightingly pale.

"House…?" Wilson pushed the wheelchair close to the bed, gently touching his friend's shoulder. "Come on – let's try to get you more comfortable." He knew House was in a lot of pain, but it wouldn't do for him to keep sitting in the chair.

For a minute, the older man didn't react at all, but then he opened his eyes and Wilson could immediately tell that he was trying to center himself.

He finally nodded weakly towards his hospital gown, which Cameron had obviously left on the bed after she had retrieved it from his office earlier.

"I should probably put that back on. - Why don't you go and… grab a new IV set or something…" He seemed resigned to his fate, trying to make the best of it now.

Wilson looked surprised for a moment, but then just wordlessly handed him the gown, suppressing a small smile. After all these years he really shouldn't be that amazed by his friend's ability to go from semi-conscious to stubbornly protective of his privacy in a matter of seconds. "Yeah. Why don't I just go do that…"

When he returned a couple of minutes later, House was indeed once again dressed in the hospital gown, but was still sitting in the wheelchair.

Wilson eyed him questioningly. "You…" He carefully gestured from the bed to his friend and back again, momentarily puzzled. "Or do you…"

With an impatient eye roll, House interrupted him. "Wasn't kidding earlier. Can't move the damned thing, and it doesn't tolerate any weight. – Didn't wanna risk anything…"

Giving a quick nod, Wilson inwardly cursed himself. 'Yeah, great job! Why don't you have him spell it out a couple of times more…?' He quickly placed the equipment he had brought on the table next to the bed, before holding his hands out for his friend. House took them both and carefully pulled himself to his feet; or to his foot really, since he didn't even try to involve his right leg in the whole affair.

With Wilson's help he made a half-hopping step towards the bed, before suddenly tilting markedly to one side.

"Woah…" Wilson immediately tightened the hold he had on his friend, keeping him upright with some difficulty. "House?!"

The older man slowly straightened up again. "Sorry…" He was panting slightly again, and Wilson could feel through the gown that he was once more sweating. "Just still a bit dizzy…" Yeah... That much was obvious.

Wilson carefully helped him get settled on the bed. "We need to get you on some fluids again…" He started to feel slightly sick, when pictures of his friend precariously balancing himself down the stairway on crutches only a few hours ago unbiddenly invaded his mind. He was really lucky he hadn't actually _killed_ himself with that stunt…

When he briefly checked the other man's leg again, he calmly asked without taking his eyes off the injury: "Do we need to get a new MRI…?" He could see House look at him in his peripheral field of vision.

"Well… In case you plan on checking it every 6 hours now, sure! Why not…" His voice was still thick with pain, but at least part of the snark was back.

Wilson suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at that, throwing his friend a frustrated glance instead. "Could you have injured yourself _further _sometime during your little… trip today."

House turned his head away from him. "I didn't fall; if that's what you mean…"

Wilson frowned at that. "Okay…" He lengthened the word questioningly. When this didn't get the intended reaction, he patiently clarified: "That's good. – And did you hit it hard, twist anything, or… whatever else could have _injured it further_?"

House shook his head minutely, still not facing him again. "Don't need a new MRI."

Quietly studying his friend for a minute, Wilson decided to leave him in peace for now. He arranged the IV equipment and the new bag of fluids with practiced movements, before calmly starting to prepare a vein. "The fluids should help with the dizziness. – You're probably a little dehydrated by now…" Not that House needed to hear this from him, but he had a feeling his proud friend was about to pull into himself again.

When he didn't get a reply, he gently continued: "We'll need to start thinking about what to do in terms of pain management soon… I think we should ask Dr Shaminsky to join us tomorrow, so we can work something out. At least a general setting. Some idea where to go from here…"

Still no reaction.

Wilson had to suppress the urge to sigh. "For now I think we should give you the chance to get some rest and try a shot of demerol. At this point, I think a night of uninterrupted sleep outweighs the risk of the narcotic..."

House turned his head towards him at that, finally meeting his gaze again. His voice still spoke of exhaustion and pain, but he sounded a little less resigned. "I think I might love you…"

Wilson chuckled slightly at that. "Yeah House, I know. I love you, too…"

He attached the pulse oxymeter to his friend's forefinger. "I wanna have a close look at your vitals the first time we try narcotics again." He proceeded by hooking the other man up to the cardiac monitor.

"And I want you to wear this for a while…" He once more started to prepare the nasal cannula, holding up a hand when House was about to protest. "Your breathing hasn't been exactly stable these last few days. I'm not taking any chances." He held it out for the other man, who just eyed him stubbornly. Wilson didn't even blink.

"No oxygen, no drugs."

That did it. With a look of frustration, House accepted the cannula and applied it himself again, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath. Wilson looked almost smug.

A quick check of his friend's vitals told him that his BP and heart-rate were still up, respirations still a little quick. But none of this was unexpected after hours without any pain relief, and days without narcotics… At least the O2 sat rate was good now with the oxygen support.

"Okay; this might sting just a little…" He quickly pushed back the blanket and moved House's gown until he had sufficient access to his left hip.

As soon as he had set the injection, the tension visibly left his friend's body for the first time in days, both fists unclenching, his breathing gradually evening out. The last remains of a grimace left his face, and he tiredly allowed his eyes to close again.

"House?" He reluctantly met Wilson's mildly concerned gaze.

"I want you to try and stay awake for a while. I wanna make sure you tolerate it okay."

He gave a small nod, fighting to keep his eyes open.

Not even ten minutes later, he had lost the fight…

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"We need to talk to him about what we're going to do…"

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. But not now… He needs to rest."

Cuddy looked down at House's still figure frowning slighty. "Did you sedate him?"

The oncologist met her gaze calmly. "Demerol. – He should be out for a couple of hours..."

Cuddy watched him sleeping for a moment, then shook her head pensively. "This won't be easy." She shrugged in apparent frustration. "In a few days he can be discharged, but then what? He doesn't have a working pain management regimen. He can hardly _move_! - And I'm still not convinced he's not going to engage in any self-harming behavior…!" She searched Wilson's eyes. "Bottom line is: We can't just let him go home and leave him to his fate."

Wilson shook his head somewhat exasperated. "Of course not. We didn't leave him to his fate the _last _time..."

She firmly held his gaze, her voice compassionate but also determined. "It would be best for him to go to some sort of rehab facility. – He'd have around-the-clock help with finding a new combination of meds there, and we wouldn't have to worry about his…", she grimaced slightly, "...mental state."

That did it. "I'm not worried about his mental state!" Wilson tried to keep his voice down, loath to disturb his sleeping friend, but he was clearly losing his patience. "At least not any more than usual… - And he will never agree to go to rehab!"

She just shrugged, stating matter-of-factly: "Well, he'll need some help with this."

Wilson reluctantly held her gaze, replying somewhat self-consciously: "He'll _have _help. – You know that…"

Cuddy nodded, her expression unreadable, tone conspicuously neutral. "You plan to move in with him again?"

Wilson raised his shoulders in a half-shrug. "I don't... plan... _anything_, before we haven't spoken with him."

She didn't let him get away that easily. "You'd take time off?" Her voice now had a slightly challenging edge to it.

He frowned at that, clearly puzzled by her questioning. "Sure, why not. If the need should arise... – I have plently of open vacation time."

Cuddy sighed. "You're not a nurse, Wilson. – And he'd be supported much more adequately in a clinic _specialized_ on these things…!"

Wilson shook his head. "Not if he doesn't want it. – And he's not nearly as helpless as you seem to think. When he's not just incapacitating himself by breaking his leg, he tends to be surprisingly self-reliant in fact…"

When her expression didn't change, Wilson sighed slightly. "Listen, Cuddy. This has been a tough year for all of us. But most of all for _him_! And this time I definitely won't just stand by again, silently watching him suffer, being forced to do things he doesn't wanna do! - I can't do this again."

Still clearly unconvinced, Cuddy replied with a hesitant nod. "We'll talk about this tomorrow..."

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He thought he heard people talking somewhere close to him, though everything seemed to be coming through a haze.

"… he will never agree to go to rehab!" A man… Wilson?

So tired… He couldn't even get himself to open his eyes.

"…he'll need some help with this." Cuddy. Ah, so they were already talking about him…

"You plan to move in with him again? …take time off?" The guy she was talking to had to be Wilson then...

So hard to concentrate… He should really join this discussion, preferably _now_, before he woke up in the morning magically teleported to the fucking psych ward. But it was so hard to stay awake… Why was he so tired? And why didn't Wilson answer anything?

"I can't do this again."

'_I can't do this again.'_

'_I can't do this again.'_

The shock of the statement was almost enough to bring him back to full awareness. Despite the narcotic; despite his un_believable _exhaustion.

Wilson couldn't do this again. ---

So, he would have to do it _alone_.

A momentary bout of panic made his chest suddenly feel too tight. - Not so bad now that he was still on the nasal oxygen support…

Well, he probably shouldn't be too surprised. The time since his return from Europe must have been hell for his friend. To see him in the state he had been in; to get caught in the crossfire in his fight with Cuddy; to actually take over fighting it _for_ him; to once again neglect his own life to be there for him…

He couldn't blame Wilson that he wasn't exactly keen on getting that involved again... ---

It still hurt surprisingly much. Frighteningly much.

He suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of abandonment. ---

He had always secretly feared, that one day Wilson would finally start to feel suffocated by all the responsibility he so naturally seemed to accept when it came to him. But that he had actually managed to burden the other man enough to make him shy away from… Yeah, from what? The closeness? The burden? All the shit that was generally associated with the arduous task of finding new pain meds for a chronic pain patient? Probably a combination of all that…

He really couldn't blame the man! – And he didn't... He was so fucking tired of all of this himself..…

With all the shit they had been through together, it was a wonder really, that Wilson's patience had lasted this long!

A bit ironic that after all these years of teasing Wilson for 'needing the neediness', for practically _living _for it, he had obviously managed to provide just a little too much of it, even for his selfless friend…

He was immediately disgusted with himself at the thought. Pathetic, that's what he was... -

Well, for once, he wouldn't make it too hard for the other man...


	15. Chapter 15

"You want _what_?!"

House calmly returned his friend's surprised gaze. "You heard me Wilson. – I need help with this. I'll check myself into a rehab clinic."

Wilson, Cuddy, and Dr Shaminsky were staring down at him.

It was Wilson who finally replied, shaking his head in apparent confusion. "Well, what happened?! – Yesterday the thought of going anywhere _near _rehab made you try to flee through the back-door!"

House's expression was unreadable. "Can't I change my mind every now and then?" He concentrated on keeping his tone light. "I'm unwell, and I need a new combination of effective pain meds ASAP. – Isn't that what these clinics are there for?" He added innocently.

Wilson stared at him with a combination of shock and suspicion on his face.

It was Dr Shaminsky who finally broke the silence. "Okay then. I'll give you a list of hospitals to choose from. If you want me to arrange your stay for you, just let me know…"

House gave him a clipped nod.

When Shaminsky and Cuddy had left the room, Wilson sat down in the visitor's chair next to his bed.

"House…" He waited until he had his friend's attention, his voice stern now. "What's this about."

House grabbed the TV remote and started to aimlessly zap around the program. His first question this morning - naturally - had been, whether the private room on the regular ward Cuddy had reserved for him had a big enough TV...

"Don't know what you're talking about…"

"Oh, come on!" It came out a little harsher than Wilson had intended, so he added in a gentler tone: "I know you."

No response. House's eyes were glued to the TV screen.

"Yesterday you practically had a _panic attack_ when you considered someone else might start controlling your life for you. – And 12 hours later you plan on voluntarily checking yourself into a rehab clinic?! - I know you, House. Something's up."

"Yep. General Hospital. So shut up."

Wilson tilted his head back for a moment, staring at the ceiling in frustration.

Then, calmly: "How does the brace feel…"

House almost would have turned his head to look at his friend, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic, but he stopped himself at the last possible moment. He knew better than to give Wilson a new opening…

_Tight._ "Fine."

"Pain okay right now?"

_Stupid question._ "Yep."

"You planning on keeping up this bullshit for long?"

This time House turned his head towards the other man, eyes impatient. "It's no bullshit Wilson. – I'm okay; I'm going to rehab; I'll be fine."

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"So… You're really comfortable with the idea of an in-patient treatment somewhere...?", she questioned carefully.

House briefly met Cuddy's quizzical gaze, then replied with a small nod. "Well, I'm in in-patient care right _now_, aren't I…"

She rolled her eyes at the evasive reply. "You know that's not what I meant. – Seriously House…"

He abruptly turned his head towards her at that, clearly annoyed: "I'm fine! Okay?! – This was my own decision…"

Cuddy quickly nodded, clearly intent on not upsetting him any more than necessary. "Okay. We'll have the list with all the relevant centers tomorrow. - Get some rest..."

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The night nurse stood next to House's bed frowning slightly.

"Dr House… Are you in a lot of pain?"

A rhetorical question really: The man was sweating and breathing heavily, both hands gripping the bed sheet as if his life depended on holding onto it; his pulse was racing.

"Shall I page someone…? – Dr Wilson also left his private – " She never came any further.

"No! – Just...", he exhaled unsteadily. "Page the guy on duty please…"

Ten minutes later, a young medic he had never seen before was studying his chart.

"You're on a Dilaudid-drip right now; but relatively low-dosage. – I guess I could boost it up a little." He did.

"Is that any better…?" He carefully inquired after a couple of minutes.

House forced a reply through gritted teeth. "Some…"

An hour later, the night nurse came to check up on him again. One look told her enough…

"I'll page Dr Carlson again."

"No!" He grabbed her wrist. "Just…" Reaching out with a trembling hand, he pulled the blanket away from his leg. "…help me loosen that brace a bit, will you…?"

She frowned at that, hesitating. "I don't know if we should – "

He impatiently interrupted her. "Please! It's…" He took a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm himself. "It's okay. It's just too tight."

She slowly nodded, still not entirely comfortable with the situation. "Okay. The thigh part or the knee part…?"

House grimaced momentarily. "Both." His hands were clenched to fists.

She started to fumble with a couple of Velcro fastenings, until finally the supporting material gave way, causing House to moan in a mixture of relief and pain brought on by the abrupt change in pressure.

The nurse eyed him questioningly; he managed a reassuring nod. "Thank you…"

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Wilson entered House's room early the next morning, holding out a plastic cup to the other man, who was sitting semi-upright for a change.

"I brought you coffee. – The good stuff…"

House accepted it with a nod, eyeing his friend somewhat skeptically as he settled himself once again in the visitor's chair next to his bed.

Taking a sip from his own cup, Wilson critically inspected the other man.

A moment of silence; then: "You okay? – I read the night report..."

House produced a comic eye roll at that. "Everyone's gossipy these days…" He caricatured his intonation into one of mock-dismay.

To Wilson's persistent gaze, he finally added in a clipped tone: "Yeah. I'm fine." He was clearly already getting irritated.

"I told Dr Jones that you were having trouble with how they adjusted the brace. – They'll have another look at it today…"

House glanced at the ceiling in apparent frustration. "Why don't you ask for a consult from another _clinic_ while you're at it?!" Voice dripping of sarcasm.

Wilson rolled his eyes at that. "The brace is of no use if you keep it open. – You know that… So stop giving me crap."

House took another sip from his cup.

"Nice coffee…"

Wilson smirked. "Yeah…"

Then, carefully: "You still going through with the rehab idea?"

House nodded. "Sure."

"Have you gone over Shaminsky's list yet?"

House didn't return his friend's searching gaze. "Yep."

Wilson raised both eyebrows in question, slightly annoyed by his taciturnity. "And…?"

The older man threw him an impatient glance. "_And_ Shaminsky's already made some calls, and I can have a place tomorrow."

It was Wilson's turn to become impatient now. "House. Where." Sternly.

A moment of silence. Then: "Triston."

"What?!" Wilson's eyebrows shot up at that. "That's… 80 miles from here!"

"See? _Told _you those geography classes would pay off for you one day…"

Wilson ignored the sarcastic remark. "There are at least half a dozen facilities much closer than that! Why Triston?!"

House just shrugged. "Fits well. They specialize on pain management issues and drug rehab. Holistic concept and all…"

Wilson frowned heavily at that. "As if you'd care at all about holistic therapy concepts… - What's going on, House?!"

The older man met his gaze, his expression blank. "I have a pain management problem. I'm going to a clinic to work on that. I opted for the center most suited for my situation."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "And the fact, that 80 miles between Triston and Princeton make visiting you difficult for people, had nothing to do with it?"

"Maybe it has _everything_ to do with it! Maybe I don't need people to _pester_ me all the time."

Silence.

"Okay…" Wilson's voice was calm. Questioning. "Is that what this is about? You need… space?" Incredulously.

When House just shrugged and then sank back on the bed, Wilson's gaze softened. The short outburst had clearly taken its toll on the other man.

"I don't understand you right now, House. But that's okay. – If Triston is where you think this could work out, then so be it… I just wish you'd talk to me."

No response.

House closed his eyes.

This conversation was officially over...

With a small sigh, Wilson removed the coffee cup from his friend's hand and set it down on the nightstand next to the bed.

Contemplating a moment on whether to leave or to stay now, he finally shifted to settle more comfortably in the hard plastic chair.

Better for House to feel pestered than alone... If he really wanted him to leave, he'd have to tell him directly.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has been patiently sticking with this story so far. It somehow just doesn't seem to wanna come to an end... :) And thanks so much for all the constructive reviews - they really keep me going...! To Melissa Jooty: Couldn't help but cite you after all... Thanks. :)  
**

**So, onto the story! Here's chapter 16 --- Uh-oh... My unlucky number... ;)  
**

The next few days passed slowly, for everybody. They decided to keep House at PPTH until the pain in his leg could be controlled with oral doses of oxycodone. While he was reluctant to switch to this – even by his standards – strong narcotic again, he also knew that Vicodin alone would definitely not be enough right now – with the acute injury to his thigh – without hopelessly overmedicating. So he resigned himself to oxycodone as a short-term interim measure, until they would have a chance to figure out a new combination of meds. Which - now that the antidepressants were out - probably wouldn't be an easy task…

Wilson had tried to approach his friend about his slightly strange demeanor a couple of times more, but House had stubbornly adhered to his story, unwilling to go any further into the whole issue. And while Wilson knew that a compliant House was _never_ a good thing, he had eventually resigned himself to the fact that surely something _was_ up, but that obviously his friend wasn't ready to enlighten him about it.

He still didn't like the fact that House had decided on a pain management facility far enough away from Princeton, that any visits would for the most part be restricted to the weekends. And he didn't like how physically compromised House still was after the coma and after weeks of a gradually worsening serotonin syndrome. He had lost at least 15 pounds and his stamina was sadly reduced. But – for the last day or two – he had at least been able to get around on his own again with the help of a wheelchair or crutches, and he hadn't had any more severe episodes of breakthrough pain. So, it looked as if things were finally starting to improve again…

Still, Wilson couldn't help himself. He had a very uneasy feeling about House in that clinic, where he would be completely on his own for days at a time, without familiar faces or people he trusted around him. He didn't like it. Not with the way House had been acting these last couple of days; not with the very difficult time that probably lay ahead of him; and not with him having been rapidly taken off effective anti-depressant medication.

Mood alterations had to be expected, and the SSRI withdrawal syndrome still probably wasn't completely resolved; that _alone_ made severe feelings of depression and anxiety very possible. He had meant what he had said, when he'd told Cuddy that he didn't think House was suicidal. But the sudden cut-off of the SSRI was bound to have some negative effects on his mood and sleeping pattern. He'd just rather be somewhere around him for now…

But ultimately he had no choice but to respect his friend's decision, and so Wilson was the one to inform House, that the ambulance that would take him to Triston had just arrived.

"So…" Wilson addressed the other man; quietly, hesitantly.

House looked up at him from his wheelchair, a small bag with some clothes and toiletries already in his lap.

"So...!", he echoed, putting an uncharacteristic amount of light enthusiasm into the one word. "See you in a couple of weeks!" With that he pushed himself past the younger man.

The way he didn't meet his eyes finally told Wilson without a doubt that his friend felt hurt.

"House!" He quickly turned to follow him, puzzled by the way House actually managed to act as if _he'd_ been abandoned, when in fact _he_ was the one who had decided to go to a clinic 80 miles from Princeton. When he had caught up with his friend again, he addressed him sternly, completely at a loss with what exactly he could have done wrong. "You won't see me 'in a couple of weeks'. - I'll come visit you of course! At least on the weekends…"

House still didn't meet his gaze, stoically continuing to push himself towards the elevators. "Whatever…" The gruff reply wasn't enough to re-establish his aura of indifference.

"House!"

This time he stopped the wheelchair and turned slightly to meet Wilson's concerned gaze.

"You don't really want to do this, do you." Not really a question.

"Wouldn't do it otherwise, would I…" He replied irritably, his expression unreadable.

Wilson laughed at that, a short, humorless laugh. "Honestly? – I have no idea. You've done plenty of stuff over the years, which you probably didn't really _want_ to do. When you were too… proud or too stubborn or... whatever else might have been going on in that labyrinth of your mind... to do something else."

House didn't look surprised, but for once didn't seem to come up with anything to retort.

So Wilson continued, gently, in a last effort to clear this up somehow. "So… Is it anything like that now?"

House just wordlessly looked at him for a long moment, then averted his gaze and continued his way towards the elevator. "No."

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On day 1 of House's rehab, Wilson couldn't get a hold of his friend all day.

On day 2 of House's rehab, he did reach him on the phone, but all he earned himself for his efforts was a snappy one-liner and the sudden sound of the dialing tone.

On day 3 of House's rehab, he decided to give both of them a rest.

On day 4 of House's rehab, Wilson called late and had a more or less civil conversation with his friend. Unfortunately, the authenticity of the discussion was somewhat diminished by the fact that House's vocabulary seemed to be basically narrowed down to the word 'fine'…

On day 5 of House's rehab, Wilson decided that he needed to see the other man, even though it was only Friday.

So he left work early and made his way to Triston.

He asked for House's room number at the nurses' lounge.

"Does he know you're coming?"

Wilson was momentarily surprised. "Uh.. I guess he expects me sometime. – I didn't explicitly tell him I'd be coming this afternoon."

The nurse raised an eyebrow at that. "Well, good luck then. He's not exactly Mr Sunshine today…"

Wilson nodded politely, before turning around and heading off towards the elevators, mumbling under his breath: "Well, _that_ would have been alarming..."

When he approached the half-open door to his friend's room, he heard voices from inside. He stopped, reluctant to interrupt whatever was going on.

"Listen, Dr House… I understand that you're in pain. I know it's a rough time for you right now, but we already discussed our strategy to start off with as little medication as possible and then gradually increase it and add compounds, until we reach the minimum amount of drugs we need to effectively control your pain. – I believe that the Pregabalin will eventually take care of most of the neuropathic pain you're suffering, so please, just give it a couple of days more. – And as for the PT issue… You say: 'No narcotics, no PT'; and that's okay – we can't force you. But we need to do something for your leg. An exercise component is very important as one therapy module. And if you say you're in too much pain to do much, especially with the acute injury, then that's fine. – But why don't you at least try some hydrotherapy? Go easy on your leg and still work it a little… Or let us work on the thigh with massages and some passive movement therapy! That would also certainly be beneficial…"

That was when House suddenly spoke, apparently unable to bear the tirade in silence any longer. His tone was sharp, frustrated, incredulous: "You wanna _massage_ contused muscles?! Why don't you go ahead and just _chop_ the damned thing _of_?! Save us both the trouble… – Do you even have a medical degree?!"

Even without being able to see them, Wilson could tell that the therapist was losing his patience. "Dr House… The injury is 10 days old! Moderate massages and mild strain won't aggravate anything…"

The other man snorted. "Yeah, well… Tell that to the _myositis _you'll be causing."

A moment of silence, then House's doctor spoke again, changing the subject a little: "I'm also not very happy with how much time you're spending in your room. How rarely you leave the bed really."

No reply.

The therapist suddenly softened his tone. "If you need some help getting around, that's fine! The nursing staff will be happy to assist you. – It's neither good for you nor for your leg if you're too immobile. Some activity will do you good, even if it's just in the wheelchair…"

Another moment of silence. Then, with forced enthusiasm: "Come on. Why don't you let me help you up and accompany me to – "

"Don't touch me!" House hissed in a strained voice.

The medic sounded frustrated by now. "Don't you think you might be a little – "

Before the discussion could get any more out of hand, Wilson decided to make his appearance. Both men turned towards him, as soon as he knocked on the open door and quietly entered the room.

"Hi." He made eye-contact with House's doctor. "I'm James Wilson, I'm Dr House's – "

The younger medic interrupted him: "…prescribing physician. Yeah, I know." He managed a tired smile. "David Jennings; pleased to meet you…"

After a quick handshake, Dr Jennings hesitantly turned to go. "I'll leave you to it, then." He threw House one last glance. "We'll talk some more about this tomorrow…"

With that he was gone without waiting for a reply.

Not even _trying_ to mask his discontent and concern, Wilson critically eyed his friend, who was currently sitting on his bed, wearing a shirt and a pair of loose trousers, both legs stretched out in front of him.

"How are you doing…" The question came out more accusingly than he had intended, and it was completely unnecessary really. House looked bad. Real bad. He still hadn't regained much of his usual color and he had apparently lost some more weight. Dark circles marked the area under his eyes, probably attesting to a couple of more or less sleepless nights, and – not suprisingly – he looked pained. Tense. And completely exhausted.

Nevertheless, House calmly met his gaze. "Okay."

Not the reply Wilson had expected. Anything less than a 30-minute tirade about the incompetent asses treating him here, and the unnecessary and cruel torture he was permanently being put through, would have been a disappointment right now. But none of this came.

Wilson threw him an incredulous glance. "Sorry, House. But right now, you don't look it."

The older man just shrugged.

Pulling a chair over to the bed, Wilson sat down next to his friend.

He didn't really know what to say; the atmosphere between them was immediately uncomfortable.

"What do they have you on?", he finally ventured.

House sounded frustrated. "Does it matter?"

Wilson kept his gaze fixed on the other man. "Didn't know you were trying to go non-narcotic again…"

House just shrugged again. "I'm not. – It's just the way they work here. Go from agonizing to intolerable. Slowly."

Wilson's expression softened in involuntary compassion. His eyes went to his friend's right leg, studying it, as if its position and contours alone would tell him anything about its current condition. He wanted to touch it to make a more thorough assessment, but didn't want to cause any additional pain. "Leg still bad…?" He finally just asked.

House very briefly met his questioning gaze. "Not great…" Reluctantly. Frustrated. Embarrassed?

"You removed the brace?" He tried not to sound accusing again.

Just a shrug. "Only the thigh part. – I'm not walking on it anyway…"

Wilson frowned when he studied the leg again. "Your foot shouldn't be that swollen…" It was clearly visible, even through the sock.

House seemed unperturbed. "Circulation's not the best right now. It'll be okay, once the swelling around the knee has gone down some…"

Unsure how much contact the other man would allow right now, Wilson slowly stood up from his chair and sat down on the edge of House's bed, near its foot part. He lifted a hand and questioningly touched his friend's right ankle. When this didn't get him a reaction, he searched House's gaze, silently asking for permission. The older man just closed his eyes briefly, moving his head slightly to the side and down; it could have been the indication of a nod.

Taking that as a reluctant 'yes', Wilson very carefully started to massage his friend's swollen foot. House reflexively drew his breath in sharply at the initially painful pressure, but then started to gradually relax into the gentle touch. After a couple of minutes, he moved to lie back on the bed, and Wilson adjusted his position accordingly to regain good access to the leg. After about half an hour, the swelling had markedly receded, so Wilson slowly stilled his movements, casually keeping one hand on the instep of his friend's foot.

House didn't open his eyes. "Thank you…"

The words were so quiet, that Wilson would almost have missed them.

He was surprised when he felt himself blush slighty in response, but then he just nodded, even though his friend couldn't see it. "Anytime."

When House didn't say anything more and kept his eyes closed, Wilson gave his foot a last gentle squeeze, before slowly removing his hand and getting to his feet.

"I'll come again tomorrow… Do you want me to bring anything from your apartment? Or... anything else?"

House tiredly met his gaze at that, turning his head slightly and raising an eyebrow. "A file baked in a cake would be nice…"

Wilson chuckled slightly at that; for just this moment, things were okay...

"Sure. - Hope I have enough butter left at home..."


	17. Chapter 17

When Wilson returned to the rehab clinic the next afternoon, he decided to talk to Dr Jennings first.

"So… How's Dr House doing?"

Jennings slowly nodded. "Well... He sure is one hell of a patient."

Wilson frowned slightly at the somewhat inappropriate reply. "Care to... elaborate?"

The therapist nodded again. "We took him off all medication for a day, to assess him without the effects of the oxycodone. You can probably imagine that he wasn't too happy about that… - After that, we put him on Pregabalin, 150 mg for now, since he seems to have made good experiences with Gabapentin before. Pregabalin is a slightly improved drug with a similar mode of action, that's thought to specifically target neuropathic pain. Additionally, he's on 400 mg Ibuprofen every 8 hours now."

When he didn't continue, Wilson asked incredulously: "That's… it?!" He shook his head. "Pregabalin and Ibuprofen?! That can't be enough! – What do his pain ratings look like?" He sounded tense.

Dr Jennings shrugged. "Not good enough, certainly. – But we're still titrating the Pregabalin up, and we'll add other drugs to the mix over the next couple of weeks..."

Wilson still looked very surprised. "That seems to be… - He's injured."

Jennings nodded, smiling somewhat wryly at that. "Yeah. He doesn't tire of pointing that out to us."

Wilson felt his surprise gradually turn to anger. "That's because it's true! He's in _a lot_ of pain right now. Even by his standards! I find it hard to believe that a clinic that specializes in pain management would simply ignore that!"

The other medic's expression turned more serious at the accusation. He lightly shook his head. "We're not ignoring it. If we were ignoring it, we would force him to his feet a couple of hours each day. Which we don't. - I _know_ he's in pain. We're trying to _manage_ his pain." Then, his tone placating: "Listen, Dr Wilson... I know you're not only his prescribing physician, but also a friend of Dr House. So I can understand that this isn't easy for you. But he's okay. He's very stubborn and so far has been somewhat reluctant to fully accept our therapy concepts; but he'll get there. In a couple of weeks he'll be doing much better. You'll see…"

Wilson was still frowning. "He seems to have lost some more weight. Is he eating?"

Dr Jennings quickly checked House's chart. "He has… lost a couple of pounds, but that is to be expected when adjusting chronic pain medication. I'm not overly concerned about it."

Wilson was slowly becoming impatient. "Well, in the light of the fact that he has _already_ lost at least 15 pounds over the last few weeks before he came here, _I_ _am_ concerned."

Jennings smiled mildly at him. "As I said: You're close to him. That's why you're not treating him right now." Then, softening his tone some more: "He's okay, Dr Wilson… Why don't you let us worry about his treatment for now...? You just concentrate on being his friend..."

Forcing himself to remain as professional as possible, Wilson simply ignored the condescending remark. "All I'm saying is: He's not in a very good condition. And regardless of how well he hides it, he's in severe pain. If he doesn't leave his room, or his bed, it's because he can't. He hates to admit to any weakness and he's usually a very active man. If he doesn't move, that means his leg doesn't allow him to move. I just ask you to keep that in mind…"

Dr Jennings replied with a terse nod. "I will."

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"House?" When he entered his friend's room, the other man was nowhere in sight.

Before his mind even had a chance to come up with horror scenarios including House and some deserted stairwell, Wilson's questions were answered by retching sounds coming from the adjacent bathroom.

"House?" He lightly knocked on the door to his right, without opening it. "You okay in there...?"

A moment of silence. Then, hoarsely: "Do I _sound_ okay to you?!"

Wilson smiled worriedly. "Can I come in?"

No reply. Just the sound of retching again.

He pushed the door open at that, unable to just stand there doing nothing.

"House!" As soon as he took in the sight of his friend hunched over the bathroom sink retching miserably, his face bone-white, shoulders trembling, Wilson quickly approached him, ready to support him if he needed it. And not a second too soon. Just when he arrived at his side, House's legs seemed to buckle under his weight and he bonelessly collapsed into his arms.

"Need some help in here…!" Wilson called out quickly, hoping one of the nurses would hear him, while at the same time gently lowering his friend's body to the bathroom floor.

"House?!" Gently but firmly slapping his face, he tried to rouse the other man. "Hey, buddy! Come on… Open your eyes for me… - House!"

A few seconds later, his eyelids fluttered open. He seemed momentarily confused.

"Hey..." Wilson gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You with me again?"

House took a moment to focus on his face, then nodded slowly. "Think so, yeah… - I passed out, didn't I." His eyes started to wander around the small room in an effort to orient himself again.

Wilson smiled reassuringly. "Would at least explain why you're lying on the bathroom floor, wouldn't it."

That was when one of the nurses stuck her head through the door, inhaling sharply when she spotted their patient on the tiled floor. She took a step backwards, calling out towards the corridor: "Dr Jennings! – It's Dr House…"

Seconds later, both the nurse and House's therapist had joined them.

"What happened…" Dr Jennings knelt down next to his patient, feeling for his pulse.

Wilson sat back slightly, answering for his friend. "When I entered his room, I heard him retching. I came in here to see if he was alright, and he just collapsed."

Jennings nodded, checking House's pupils. "Did he fall onto his head?"

"No. I caught him. He didn't hurt anything from the fall..."

House now weakly batted both Wilson's and his therapist's hands away. "It's just some... dehydration. - I'm fine."

Wilson rolled his eyes at that. "You're not fine, House!" He turned towards Dr Jennings. "You need to get him on IV fluids. – He had a pretty severe hypokalemia a few weeks ago. You should take some blood and check his electrolytes as well…"

Jennings nodded, focussing on his patient again. "So… You've been throwing up a lot since you came here…?"

Just a tired shrug.

"Is it the Pregabalin or the Ibuprofen? What do you think?"

House shook his head. "Neither."

Dr Jennings frowned at that. "Dr House…" Voice suddenly stern. "Have you been taking anything else you haven't told us about?"

A weak snort. Then, more mumbled than spoken: "I wish…"

Jennings' frown deepened. Then, realization finally showing on his face: "Oh." He shook his head. "That bad, huh…"

House seemed uncomfortable, but didn't reply anything.

"Think you can sit up…?" Wilson gently inquired.

When House just nodded, both men started to pull him up to help him lean against the wall. He suddenly cried out briefly in obvious pain, both hands reflexively going to his leg, but then hovering just above it.

"You okay…?" Dr Jennings asked somewhat uneasily.

When a clipped nod was the only response he got, he turned towards the nurse, who was still standing somewhat helplessly somewhere near the door.

"Could you bring the wheelchair over here? And then go and get us some IV fluids and a blood draw kit, please..."

She just nodded and moved the wheelchair from its place near the bed to the bathroom door.

Between the two of them, Wilson and Dr Jennings managed to help House into the chair, even though he was biting his lower lip _hard _at the movement, face contorted with pain. They wheeled him over to the bed and helped him get settled, before waiting for the IV equipment.

"You should have said something, Dr House… If you've been that nauseous from the pain, you… - We had no way of knowing that."

House weakly turned his head to meet his gaze. "Thought a constant 8.5 in the pain-ratings might tip you off…"

"Yeah, well…" The therapist sounded defensive. "You'll be feeling better once we get you on some fluids."

"That's a pretty safe bet I guess…" House tiredly closed his eyes.

When Dr Jennings looked down at him somewhat angrily at that, apparently not planning to do anything else, Wilson fought to keep the irritation out of his voice. "You wanna take his blood pressure…?"

Jennings nodded shortly and left the room, probably to get the respective device.

Wilson hesitated briefly, but then just sat down on the visitors' chair next to House's bed, calmly regarding his friend. He stated softly after a moment of silence: "You could always leave, you know…"

House tiredly met his gaze, before shaking his head dismissively. "I'm fine."

"House… If they don't treat you – "

"_I'm_ – _fine_!"

Wilson glanced at the ceiling at that, his expression frustrated. "This is getting old real fast…"

"Yeah…?!" House suddenly replied vehemently. "You know what's getting old…?! – You… _buggin'_ me with all this _bullshit_! How many times do I have to tell you that _I'm - okay_, before you _finally _just leave me the fuck alone?!!"

Wilson looked as if he had been slapped in the face for just a second. Then he calmly got to his feet, only his eyes still betraying how much his friend's harsh words had hurt.

"Not… any more, House."

With that he slowly turned around and left the room.

**A/N: Uuhhh - that wasn't a very nice ending for this chapter, was it... :) Couldn't help it. Those two just have a mind of their own sometimes… ;)**


	18. Chapter 18

"So…" Cuddy approached him when he had just finished his last clinic patient for the day, eyes questioning. "How is he doing?"

Wilson quickly signed off the chart at the counter, before turning towards her, his face carefully guarded. "Not… so good."

She raised both eyebrows at that. "Could you… clarify that a bit?"

He took a deep breath, letting go of the chart to leave it on the counter only now. "They're very… cautious with the meds they're trying. They want to approach the dosage he'll eventually need from the minimum side, and…" He shrugged slightly. "He's in a lot of pain."

"And he's okay with that?" She frowned incredulously.

"He…" Wilson started to rub the back of his neck to ease some of the tension. "…hasn't been quite himself lately." He was talking slowly, as if carefully choosing each word.

Cuddy suddenly studied him closely, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Have you two had a _fight_?!"

He grimaced slightly at her perceptiveness. "We've… had words. – I wouldn't exactly call it a fight…"

Cuddy didn't take her eyes off him. "When."

Another small shrug. "Saturday."

She eyed him expectantly. "But… you're okay now?"

Wilson's expression turned somewhat guilty at that. "We haven't talked again."

"But you'll go see him again, won't you." She had started to gesture slightly with one hand.

He took another deep breath, then gave a reluctant nod. "Sure. I think I'll just… give us both a few days."

Cuddy grimaced empathically at that. "That bad…?"

He attempted a semi-casual shrug. "Something's bothering him. Something more than just the pain and his health issues lately…" His eyes gave away how helpless he felt right now. "But for once, I have absolutely no idea what it is."

She raised an eyebrow at that. "And… Did you try to _ask_ him about it?"

Wilson smiled tiredly in response. "As much as I usually ask him anything, yeah. – He refuses to talk about it. Keeps repeating there _is_ nothing to talk about. That he's _fine_." He looked completely frustrated. "And that was me quoting the only word I've been _hearing_ from him lately…"

Cuddy laid a comforting hand on his forearm. "Don't worry… I'm sure you'll be okay. – And he's in good hands for now, so maybe a little space will actually do you good."

He grimaced slightly at that. "That's… another thing. I'm not so sure he is." To the questioning look she gave him, he went on explaining: "He passed out from dehydration when I was there to see him on Saturday." His expression adopted a slightly pained undertone. "He must have been continuously nauseous for days, Cuddy! From the pain! And they had no idea about it… - Instead his therapist keeps pushing him to get out of his bed, move around, be more active, when it's clear that he can't." He shook his head slightly. "I don't think they're monitoring his physical condition closely enough... – I mean, they're charting his weight loss without even questioning him about it! And after he collapsed, _I _had to remind his attending physician that it just _might_ be a good idea to take his blood-pressure!" He finally met Cuddy's gaze again. "I'm not really sure I'd say he's in particularly good hands right now…"

To his surprise, she just shrugged. "So, get him out of there and bring him back." As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Wilson would almost have laughed out loud at that. He settled for a sad smile. "I already told him he could leave anytime."

"And…?"

He replied with a resigned shrug. "And… He says he's _fine_. Everything's good. – You know how he can be…"

Cuddy nodded, giving a pained half-smile. "Yeah, I know. – But why would he do that? It's not like him to resign himself to his fate when it comes to his pain."

Wilson eyed her pensively for a moment. "No, it's not. – Unless he's either too stubborn and wants to prove something to us; or…"

"Or?" She gently prompted.

Wilson hesitantly met her gaze, clearly uneasy with how frank the discussion had become. "Or he is… hurting, because he feels… rejected. Or betrayed." He shook his head slightly. "But I absolutely wouldn't know what could have suddenly prompted that. He seemed relatively okay after the stairwell incident. - I don't think this is still about the psych consult..."

Cuddy slowly shook her head, apparently pondering on other options. "It could be the SSRI withdrawal after all! We knew there would probably be psychological side effects... Maybe it's just that: Depression and anxiety caused by the rapid discontinuation of the paroxetine!"

"Well, then it would have been just _perfect_ of me to leave him alone like that…" His tone was sarcastic now; self-accusing.

Clearly unhappy with the blame he seemed so willing to accept, Cuddy quickly countered: "Well, you will have had good _reason_ to leave. Don't beat yourself up over this… Give yourself some more time and then approach him again. You'll see; it'll be fine…"

Wilson gave a resigned nod. "I hope so. – But I guess I should call the clinic at least; ask for an update on his condition. I still can't believe I just left, when he was probably close to hypovolemic shock..."

She rolled her eyes at that. "James. Not even House gets into a life-threatening state every time something bad happens to him…"

Wilson just snorted. "Yeah, well… At least he does so much more often than basic statistics would suggest… - I'll go make that call now."

Cuddy smiled sympathetically at him, replying with a short nod. "Keep me posted…"

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After he had briefly talked to Dr Jennings on the phone, Wilson felt half-way reassured. House's blood-pressure had apparently quickly recovered after a couple of hours on IV fluids. Now, he was on an antiemetic that seemed to be quite effectively preventing any further serious bouts of nausea. Wilson was also asked to send a copy of House's last MRI to the rehab clinic, because they wanted to see for themselves exactly how much damage had been done to the leg; another positive sign indicating that they might actually start to pay closer attention to House's physical condition.

Over the next few days, Wilson unsuccessfully tried to reach his friend on the phone. He hadn't even planned out what exactly he was going to _say _to him, but he needed to get in contact again after House's harsh words and his abrupt departure during his last visit. The urge to talk to the other man grew with each failed attempt to get a hold of him, and by Wednesday he even considered driving over there again, weekday or not, but two dying patients kept him busy at the hospital. On Friday, he finally managed to leave the clinic early again and was fully prepared to confront his friend and somehow resolve their issues.

He wasn't, however, prepared for the greeting that awaited him when he passed the nurses' room on House's ward.

"Oh, Dr Wilson!"

He turned towards the nurse approaching him.

"Didn't you know? Dr House left us a couple of days ago."

Wilson instantly felt the color drain from his face, shaking his head in shocked confusion. "What… do you mean?!" A stupid question really, he instantly realized; not much of her statement could possibly be misinterpreted after all…

She shrugged somewhat apologetically. "He checked out AMA Wednesday morning. Didn't want us to call anybody, didn't want a prescription. – He just left."

Wilson was literally unable to speak for a second. Then: "Why?!"

The nurse shook her head slightly. "I think it was about the physio for his leg. Dr Jennings ordered some exercises and massages to be conducted twice daily from Monday on. – Dr House didn't tolerate it very well… He broke off each session; apparently couldn't stand how painful it was… - He had two bad nights; then he decided to leave."

"I can't believe it!!" Wilson suddenly found himself giving vent to the frustration that had been building up for days. "He's at a constant **_8_** on the pain-scale, and you order physiotherapy for his leg?! He's missing 30 percent of his thigh musculature, and what's left of it is bruised! – Was anybody here thinking _at all_?!?"

The nurse eyed him calmly. "I'm sorry you're upset, Dr Wilson, but _I_ didn't order _anything_."

Fighting for his last shreds of professionalism, Wilson briefly touched his forehead, trying to calm down. "Did he say where he was planning to go…"

He knew the answer even before the nurse shook her head. "No. But he didn't ask for a referral to another clinic…"

Two hours later, Wilson was standing in front of House's apartment. He had seen light in there from outside the building, so he knew that his friend was probably here. He had apparently simply gone home.

Sometimes Wilson couldn't _believe_ the other man's stunted instinct for self-preservation. House had said so himself before: His stubborn pride, at times, could reach self-destructive extents. Curious, for a man of such exceptional intellect…

Starting to search his pockets for the spare key to House's apartment, Wilson tried not to think about the condition his friend would probably be in by now. After 60 hours of somehow toughing it out. Without an effective main management strategy. At home. Alone…

No matter what – he'd have to talk to the man today. Something was definitely very wrong, something he seemed to have missed at some point along the way; and he was determined to find out about it now.

He was abruptly interrupted in his musings by the insistent ringing of his cell phone. He checked the display. House… He almost would have smiled at the irony of the situation, but a new wave of concern killed off the urge.

"House?!" He quickly answered.

"Jimmy…"

He heard it on the first syllable: His friend was definitely very drunk.

"House, are you okay?"

A moment of silence, then: "I've done something stupid."

Again the perverse urge to smile.

"Yeah, I know, House… I've just come back from Triston. - It's okay..."

"What? No…!"

Wilson frowned at that, reminding himself that he should really find that key _now_…

"_That_ wasn't stupid of me! I couldn't have stayed there…"

"Okay… - _What_ was stupid then." Wilson was growing increasingly nervous. Whatever could he have done that was even more stupid than leaving a rehab clinic physically unstable, injured, and in pain, without help and without telling anybody about it?! He seriously considered just hanging up on his friend now and calling 911 _immediately_ for a moment… Where was that damned key?!

"Listen…" House was slurring his speech badly. "I know you're fed up with me. I know you're… tired of this. – But I need you to come by my place for a sec. – Just for, you know… To help me out with something. Won't take you long… - Will you come?"

Wilson's frown deepened. _Where the hell was _this_ coming from… Well, no use discussing it now…_

"Of course. - I'll be right there, House…" _If I ever find that stupid…_

"Use your key; I'm not getting up…"


	19. Chapter 19

"House?" Wilson's eyes widened in shock as soon as he spotted his friend on the floor of the corridor in front of his bathroom, propped against one of the walls. "Oh my God, House!" All he could see at first was the blood.

House weakly lifted a hand, the other pressing what looked like a balled up shirt against the right side of his forehead. " 's okay… Just…" He made a somewhat uncoordinated, dismissive gesture. " 's nothing."

Wilson was kneeling at his side seconds later. House had wrapped a bath-towel around his hips, a white one of course, which made the red from the blood look all the more shocking. He was still wet, probably from having showered – or tried to shower – earlier.

When Wilson gently pulled House's hand away from his face, he saw that most of the blood seemed to be coming from one fairly large gash on his forehead. The blood started to run down his face more freely as soon as the pressure was gone, causing House to weakly try to press the shirt against the wound again.

"Just... let me see this for a second, House. It's okay…" Wilson gently held the other man's hand away from his face, carefully probing around the wound at the same time.

"Either I'm more confused than I thought..." Voice rough, speech still slurred, but traces of humor were evident in his tired words. "Or you made it here awfully quick..."

Wilson replied with the hint of a smile. "Was in the neighborhood..." Then, eyeing his friend assessingly: "You'll need a few stitches. - What happened?"

House gestured towards the bathroom. "Was in the shower… Had to sit down… Next thing I know is wakin' up in somethin' resembling the Red Sea."

Wilson nodded, fishing a penlight out of his breast pocket and starting to check House's light reflexes. This was just great: Trying to assess someone for a head injury when he had had – from the looks of it – enough alcohol to temporarily kill most of his higher brain functions… _Hopefully_ he was like this due to alcohol and not due to…

"How are you feeling now."

House just shrugged. "Drunk."

Another nod. "_Did_ you drink?"

House rolled his eyes. "No…" He lengthened the word sarcastically. "Been trainin' to jus' _feel_ that way. Practical really; very _cheap_…"

"What have you been taking?"

"Scotch."

Wilson threw him a mildly admonishing glance. "I mean _pain meds_. What did you take? – Do we have to worry about the alcohol…?"

House seemed to think very hard about this for a moment. Then, trying to adopt his most analytical expression: "Yes; _and no_…" He finally replied mysteriously.

This time, Wilson gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. "House! What did you take?!"

"You're no _fun_ when you're like this, Mommy… - Vicodin." When Wilson's eyes widened slightly at that, he once again waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Last around noon…"

Wilson slowly nodded, pushing himself to his feet. "Okay. I'm calling an ambulance now; you just… stay there. Don't move."

"What?! No!!", came the immediate protest. "I told you: I took the las' one _hours _ago! Don't need to go to the hospital…"

Wilson vehemently shook his head. "Oh, yes; you do, House."

To his friend's critical gaze, he patiently clarified: "Well, first of all: You need stitches." – "Got a suture kit…"

"Secondly: Your head needs to be checked. – You're probably concussed." – "Head's fine…"

And... we need to run some blood tests and maybe hydrate you again. – And someone from orthopedics should take another look at your leg."

When no immediate response came to that one, Wilson crouched down in front of his pouting friend again. "Listen, House. Let's go the clinic now, run some blood tests, make sure your head's fine, and let you rest a bit. I promise to bring you home again tomorrow, okay?"

House met his gaze defiantly; or as defiantly as he managed in his current state. "No…", word stubbornly drawn out again. Then, giving a small shrug: "But you won't leave me alone until I submit to your tyranny anyway, so… Guess I have no choice. – But no ambulance. Let's jus' take your car." He made a visible effort to straighten up a bit.

Then, more mumbled than spoken: "If that's not too much to ask, that is… Wouldn't wanna make you feel _burdened_ again…" Voice sarcastic. Wilson frowned at that.

Before he could reply anything, House was already trying to steady himself against the wall and somehow get to his feet, forcing the younger man to act _now _or probably see him go down again...

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Less than five minutes later, Wilson already regretted having once again submitted to his friend's stubborn will. It had been nearly impossible to even get House into some clothes! Aside from being very drunk, his leg seemed even worse than the last time Wilson had seen it, large areas of the thigh being red and hot to the touch; indications of an inflammatory process. So any movement was agony for House, even through layers of alcohol-induced numbness.

The car drive had brought grunts of pain from the injured man with every little bump in the road. In the end, Wilson had slowed down so much that he doubted they'd ever reach the clinic… For once, House didn't protest.

By the time Wilson pulled the car into the parking lot, House had lost the remains of his color. He didn't say anything, when Wilson quietly informed him that he'd organize a wheel-chair.

10 minutes later, they had moved into one of the exam rooms. House had sobered up a bit by now, probably due to the exertion of moving and the pain associated with it. He remained quiet, when Wilson paged Foreman and the orthopedist on duty.

He even remained relatively co-operative, when Foreman put him through a complete neuro check that confirmed that he had a grade 2 concussion. They quickly fixed the head wound, took some blood, and started House on a glucose infusion, before the orthopedist arrived to examine his leg again.

He probed and prodded the thigh and knee for a while, causing House to cry out a couple of times even through any lingering 'anasthesia' of the Scotch, until he finally diagnosed the beginnings of a myositis, as Wilson had already suspected. So much for physical therapy with a muscle contusion… He ordered House a week of strict rest for the leg to avoid any further complications, and left Wilson to move him to a room on one of the regular wards for overnight observation.

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After gently helping his friend to get settled on his left side as comfortably as possible, Wilson once again occupied the visitors' chair next to the bed, focussing on House's gaunt face, contemplating his unusual quietness.

"I'm here for you, House." He suddenly stated somewhat impulsively.

When the older man just closed his eyes, Wilson looked towards the ceiling in slowly mounting frustration.

"Greg… What's going on here. Could you finally tell me please? 'Cause I have no idea - "

His voice very quiet, House interrupted him. "Do you ever think of me before the infarction…?" He briefly met Wilson's eyes, before letting his gaze drift past the other man's head.

The question caught him completely off guard. "Wh…", he started, but then just calmly regarded his friend for a moment, before nodding slowly. "Sometimes. Yeah."

House closed his eyes again. When Wilson just thought he might have fallen asleep, he spoke again. "Me too, you know…"

Wilson felt tears theatening to fill his eyes at the unusually open admission. "Yeah. I know…"

A minute later, House opened his eyes again, but didn't look at his friend. "Do you ever think about what would be different today if I'd agreed to amputation back then…?"

Wilson didn't know what to say for a moment. Then he replied honestly: "Not really, no."

A short pause, before he carefully added: "Do _you_?"

House didn't respond.

After another minute he said instead: "It probably wouldn't do me much good if I did it _now_, you know…?"

Wilson literally forgot to breathe for a moment, a knot of fear suddenly forming in his stomach. "Where's… this coming from, House."

The older man met his gaze again at that. Then he just shrugged. "Just saying: It probably wouldn't help much. After all these years of misfiring nerves, there would most probably be phantom pain."

Wilson slowly nodded again, desperately trying to get a grip on his own emotions. "I know…" Then he impulsively grasped the other man's forearm gently, supportively. "We'll work something out, House. This was not the only combination of meds that was able to alleviate your pain effectively. – I know you're feeling bad right now, but once the inflammation is under control…" His voice trailed off. "What I'm saying is: It's gonna be okay. You're not alone."

House suddenly snorted. "What happened to: 'I can't do this again…'" He gave his best to imitate something, though Wilson had no idea what it was supposed to be…

"What are you talking about." His voice clearly reflected his puzzlement.

House closed his eyes again. "Well, you should know better than I, seeing as I was doped into near-unconsciousness at the time."

Wilson considered that for a moment. Amazingly, his friend had been _doped_ very little lately. Basically once with the diazepam and then…

"Is this about the conversation I had with Cuddy after the Demerol injection?" He sounded incredulous. He honestly couldn't remember having said _anything_ that his friend could possibly be upset about.

"This isn't about anything. We won't talk about it."

Wilson's expression quickly turned from surprised to annoyed, as soon as he realized that House seriously intended not to finish this conversation.

"No, House, this is not going to happen." He instinctively knew that this one was important. "I don't know what you think you heard, or what you interpreted in some… screwed up way again… - But I'm not letting you push me away because of a crime I didn't commit."

House met his gaze abruptly at that, his expression for once completely sincere. "You didn't commit a crime. – You've finally started to look out for yourself. And that's…", he shrugged weakly. "…the right thing to do I guess."

When he closed his eyes again, Wilson raised both hands in protest, shaking his head determinedly. "No… No, House. Don't give me this crap. And for… God's sake: Tell me what you think I _said_ already!"

He waited a moment before continuing, knowing his friend better than to expect an honest explanation right away. "So… You heard me talking to Cuddy after the Demerol injection." So far he was pretty sure he was on the right path.

"And… we… thought about what to do next, I guess." He shrugged, obviously remembering the rough outlines of the conversation, but still completely clueless as to what could have unsettled his friend like that.

"House." He gently placed a hand onto the other man's forearm again, completely ignoring their usual implicit 'no-touching' rule at this point. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately… "Talk to me. Please."

House tiredly met his gaze for a brief moment again, his eyes giving away how hurt he felt for some reason.

"You said you couldn't do this again."

His voice was suspiciously neutral.

Wilson looked more puzzled than ever at the statement, shaking his head slightly, frowning in confusion.

"And… You think I was talking about… what. – Being here? Being your friend?" He had raised both eyebrows by now.

No response.

"I was talking about seeing you suffer again! I didn't want anybody to force you into rehab!" He touched the back of his neck uncomfortably. "You really think I'd back off now? After all these years? – Because of a... serotonin syndrome?!" He sounded completely incredulous.

"No…?!" House reluctantly looked at him again, his whole expressiong screaming 'You moron!'. "Because of what comes _next_ because of it."

Wilson looked almost panicked by now. "I, I, I… didn't say that!" He shrugged helplessly. "And I didn't mean it! Ask Cuddy, if you don't believe me… You must have gotten something wrong! I have no intention of going anywhere! – You're not your leg to me, House. And you're not your health!" He kept his gaze fixed on the other man now, trying to drive his point home. "You're my friend, House." He hated how his voice broke slightly at the emotional words. "We'll get through this together."


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: I'm soooooo sorry for the long wait!! The Easter egg hunt just took me a long time this year… ;) **

**But now I finally managed to finish the last chapter of "Scars", and thanks to ColorOfAngels ****I can also post it now. She**** was so kind to help me with the stupid upload function that just wouldn't work for some reason... So, many thanks to her again!!! I decided to keep this chapter in snapshot-style again (similar to the final chapter of "The best of motives"), to just show glimpses of what's going on over the course of several weeks. I hope you like it. :)  
**

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"What happened to: ‚We'll get through this together...'" House groaned from inside his bathroom.

Wilson raised both eyebrows skeptically at that. "You want me to be in there with you? Hold your hair out of your face?!" Then he cocked his head slightly to one side as if seriously considering it. "Wouldn't be much of a task, I guess…"

He automatically cringed, when the sound of painful retching once more reached his ears.

When House seemed to have calmed down a bit again, he half stated, half inquired: "I guess that means the Mexitil is out again?"

A moment of silence; then, hoarsely: "Well, unless you want me to join the club of 'halve your BMI in half a year' bulimarectics, I'm afraid so…"

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"I talked to Dr Martins today." Wilson continued to stow away the groceries he had just bought.

He saw House looking up at him out of the corner of his eye, but concentrated on keeping his tone even; professional.

"I think we should start you on some PT. Martins would be available for 3 or 4 sessions a week…"

This got him a response. "My leg hurts."

Wilson just nodded calmly. "I know it does. That's why you need the PT."

"My head hurts."

This time Wilson rolled his eyes, turning around and regarding his friend with a patient look. "It's been two weeks, House… Your head's fine."

"It _hurts_."

"Okay; I'll arrange for an MRI then..."

This time _House _rolled his eyes. "Fine. – But only twice a week."

Wilson had a hard time suppressing a smile. "Three times. And I'll drive you."

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"Are you feeling nauseous?" Wilson eyed his friend's half-finished dinner frowning slightly.

House didn't take his eyes off the TV screen. "Nope! I'm fine…"

"Then eat some more." Wilson handed him his plate again, causing House to throw him an irritated glance.

"When have you officially become my mother?"

"Since you scared the crap out of me by having to watch you in yet _another_ coma…!"

House snorted at that, voice dripping of sarcasm. "Yeah, well... sorry. – Next time I'll tell my cortex to just _hang in there_…"

Wilson smiled slightly, but nodded towards the plate. "Eat."

That earned him another mildly annoyed look. "What… Because I'm _not _feelin' sick, you want me to eat _until_ I am?!"

The younger man calmly shook his head. "No. – I want you to eat until my calculations tell me that your body at least has _the chance_ to put on some weight again. – Until your caloric _intake_ at least _equals_ the amount of energy your body is busy burning to simply keep you _alive_."

Another snort; before House reluctantly took another spoon of his pasta...

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"House?"

He waited a minute at the door to the other man's bedroom, but got no response.

"Can I come in…?"

Another moment of silence; then: "No." No surprise here…

"House… I talked to the physical therapist. He told me you left in a lot of pain."

This time, the reply came almost immediately: "So…?"

Wilson sighed, briefly touching the back of his neck, as he did so often when he was troubled by something. Then he took a deep breath, shaking his head once. "Sorry. I'm coming in …"

The curtains inside the bedroom were drawn, the lights off. Wilson slowly approached his friend's bed, holding out a cold pack towards him. "Ice…?"

When House made no move to take it, he prepared to place it onto the thigh himself, stopping the action abruptly when the older man addressed him sharply: "Don't touch it!"

Instinctively taking a step backwards, Wilson held up a hand in a placating gesture. " Okay. I won't..." Then, clinically: "When did you take the last pill?"

"5 minutes ago. Just takes a while for it to kick in. – I'll be fine…" Voice tense.

Wilson slowly nodded, regarding his friend carefully. "If you need something stronger, let me know. – That's what the emergency kit is there for, you know… You might need it from time to time, until we've figured out a good combination of meds."

House responded with a short nod, sounding impatient. "Yeah. I know. But I'm okay; just give me a minute…"

Wilson concentrated on keeping his tone even. "Of course. But you should take the ice; prevent the muscle from still being so sore tomorrow…"

Ten minutes later, House reached out for the cold pack, his features finally relaxing slightly.

"What did they make you do?" Wilson asked out of sudden curiosity.

"Walk."

A fleeting expression of surprise crossed the younger man's face, before he simply looked pleased. "That's… good!"

"Yeah, well… Tell that to my thigh muscle."

House had to be feeling better; the dry humor was already back.

Wilson regarded him with an affectionate smile, hoping his friend wouldn't be able to see it in the semidarkness. "It'll agree in a couple of weeks."

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House stormed into Cuddy's office with an air of determination, that wasn't diluted by the fact that he was still on crutches.

"Why did you cut back my clinic hours?!" It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

"Uh…" She seemed surprised by his apparent anger. "With the new interns – we're sufficiently staffed right now; for a change. So… No need for you to be there! – For now at least; so enjoy it while you can…"

House frowned at that, fixing Cuddy with an annoyed glare. "What you're really saying is: You think I cannot make it. – And you think by showing… _compassion_ for me – "

Cuddy simply interrupted him, her expression unreadable. "Maybe I just don't want you to scare away the _patients_, by looking sicker then _they_ do."

He completely ignored her comment. "Is that your way of saying you're sorry? – Compensating for some insane guilt complex again?!"

She just rolled her eyes. "Whatever plays into your narcissistic fantasies best, House."

His gaze rested on her a moment longer, before he simply turned around to leave. "For next week's schedule: Plan me in as usual."

Sitting down behind her desk again, Cuddy stared after him. Then she just shook her head, a small smile softening her features...

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"So… How was the first day back on the cane?" Wilson curiously regarded his friend, who entered his apartment visibly pained but walking almost normally. Well, normally for _him_ anyway…

"You asking my leg or my shoulder…?"

Wilson frowned slightly at that. "Uh… The leg?"

"Fine."

His frown deepened. "The shoulder?"

"Horrible."

Wilson responded with a soft smile. "I left dinner for you in the oven, if you want some…"

House was already on his way into the kitchen. "Thanks, Mom…"

When he joined Wilson in the living room a minute later, he set down his plate on the coffee table, before sinking down on the couch and carefully starting to massage his right shoulder and upper back. "Maybe I should just forget about the cane and stick with the damned crutches…" It was more of a groan than a sentence.

Wilson nodded. "Or maybe you should just START USING THE CANE ON THE PROPER SIDE!"

House's gaze went towards the ceiling in frustration. They'd had this particular conversation about a thousand times in the year following the infarction. He wordlessly started to dig into his food instead of continuing it.

When he had finished eating, Wilson eyed him again, his expression completely neutral. "Want me to give you a proper massage…?"

"What… You wanna get into my pants?! – You just had to _say so_, Wilson! No need to keep beating around the bush like that…"

The younger man rolled his eyes at his friend's antics. "Was there a 'yes' or 'no' hidden somewhere in there?"

When House didn't reply anything immediately, he nodded towards the bedroom. "Come on. You'll be feeling better afterwards."

After another brief moment of hesitation, House slowly got to his feet, but not without wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, of course. "I'm sure I _will_…!"

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" Dr Wilson!"

He had an eerie sense of déjà vu, when he waited for Foreman to catch up with him. The neurologist held a sheet of paper out towards him.

"I did some research. Thought you could use some input on the latest developments in the management of chronic neuropathic pain…"

Wilson raised an eyebrow in slight surprise, but accepted the list. "Uhh... Thanks."

Foreman just nodded. "You're still trying out different combinations of meds, aren't you…"

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. – Though the Vicodin and the Pregabalin seem to stand. But we're still looking for something to replace the SSRI effectively… Right now we're thinking a tricyclic antidepressant maybe; one without significant serotonergic action of course. Guess we'll have to see about the side-effects…" He finished with a shrug, then regarded Foreman's list for a moment. "But I'll definitely show this to House and Shaminsky. Maybe we can try some of it… - Thanks again."

Foreman obviously felt the need to explain himself some more. "I would have talked to House directly, but something told me he wouldn't have appreciated it…" A wry smile.

Wilson nodded, momentarily unable to suppress a mental image featuring Foreman, House, and a certain cane. "Well, maybe he _would _have appreciated it, but he _probably _wouldn't have given you any indication… - He _definitely_ will appreciate getting this without the social interaction."

Foreman smirked at that. "Yeah, well. _That's_ just the man we all love..." Then, suddenly more serious again: "But you're doin' okay? – Can't be easy right now to be around him all the time…"

Wilson looked surprised by the question for a moment, apparently uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. He didn't say anything for a long moment, and Foreman was just about to apologize for his comment, when Wilson finally met his gaze calmly. "It would be harder _not_ to be around. – I'm fine…"

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"You comin'?" Wilson waited for his friend to join him at the front door.

House returned his questioning gaze. "It's sunny today. – Think I'll try taking the bike in…"

Wilson thought the look House gave him was odd. Was he asking him for _permission_? Approval?! Or was he just unsure whether or not he was ready for this, and wanted to hear his opinion…

He finally nodded slowly, carefully choosing his next words, trying to cover all the possibilities. "Sure." Tone light. "If the… weather shouldn't hold, you can always get a ride back with me…"

House responded with a short nod, appearing relieved. "Okay then. – See you at the clinic."

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"You won't believe what Chase did today!"

Wilson didn't even look up from the book he was reading. "What… Did he try to touch your markers again?"

House flopped down on the couch next to him. "If by 'markers' you mean my personal, private issues… Then yes! How did _you_ know?!"

Wilson scrunched up his face in mild confusion, eyeing his friend curiously now. "So… What did he do?!"

"He told me…" He inserted a dramatic pause, causing Wilson to raise both eyebrows in anticipation. "…that he was _glad _I was _feeling_ - _better_…!"

Wilson grimaced at that. "How did you react? – Please tell me you didn't hit him with your cane…? Or with... anything else?"

"Why Jimmy! I wouldn't do _that_…!" He imitated a hurt expression. "Kids are our _future_ after all! "

The younger man's expression remained apprehensive. "What did you do."

"Nothing." House gave a slight shrug, looking very pleased with himself. "Only told him he could _wallow_ in his happiness all he _wanted_. – In the _clinic_; while covering for me for the next two or three hours…"

Wilson rolled his eyes at that. "I'm not... surprised."

"Where does he even get the _idea_ that I'm feeling better…"

"Hmm… Let me think." Wilson frowned as if deep in thought. "It just _might_ have something to do with you standing semi-upright again most of the time, talking more than two words per day, and not puking your guts out every five minutes." This earned him an exasperated glare.

Before House could counter anything, he quickly continued. "Cuddy seems to have come to a similar conclusion, by the way. She gave me these today…" He held out an envelope towards his friend.

House opened it, a curious expression on his face. Which quickly turned incredulous. Surprised. Hurt? "First-class tickets to Hawaii?! – Wow…! She must _really_ think you need the vacation..."

Wilson shrugged, clearly intent on not making too big a deal of it. "She just rebooked them. They were already paid for by the hospital, for a couple of guys from orthopedics." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Conference cancelled; both too busy to go just for vacation; you know how it goes…"

House replied with a clipped nod. "You should go then. Just; you know… relax a bit after all this…"

Wilson nodded pensively. That had been more or less exactly Cuddy's words, when she had given him the tickets earlier. That he should just go and recover a bit from the 'double burden' of the last few months. The stress of dealing with both his work and House. "I guess…" He could hear the hesitation in his own voice.

Because he didn't _feel_ particularly tired really. All of them – Cuddy, Foreman, and even House himself – seemed to implicitly assume that this had been nothing but a wearisome duty for him. A tiring time, taxing his strength. When it had in fact been _House_, who had gone through weeks of exhausting physical therapy, frustrating drug trials, and too much pain once again.

He wasn't tired. Most of all he was _relieved_. Happy that House was finally better. Just happy to have his friend back. He didn't feel so much in need of a vacation, or even space...

As a matter of fact, he rather _enjoyed_ the time he was able to spent with House right now, relishing the fact that he was very obviously feeling relatively good. Sure, he was still as snarky and sarcastic as ever, but his pain was finally under as much control as it would ever be, which reflected in everything he did and said. So, all the more reason to enjoy the company of his friend while he could!

Suddenly, a mischievous sparkle entered his expressive brown eyes. He couldn't help himself; even if Cuddy wouldn't like it; even if everybody else would think he was crazy.

He nodded towards the envelope House was still holding, grinning openly by now. "Wanna come with?"

The end

**A/N: So… That was that. :) I had a great time writing this story, and I'd like to thank all of you again, who have taken the time to read and review it. SPECIAL THANKS go to my regular reviewers (I can't believe how nice you've all been to me…), particularly 1985laurie, HouseAddict16, SamBell/chaoskir, Boys Don't Cry, SupportSeverusSnape, Dr. Fantabulous, KylaRyan, Hatori Soma, embeer2004, Wuchel1, justme9at, BlkDiamond, med-anomaly, Irat, HouseAddict, Knightgirl4Jack, Radon65, Surfredia, Melissa Jooty, and 10milesfromnowhere. **

**Have a nice spring. :) **


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